SILENCE AND TEARS
By Randall

CHAPTER 1: Justin POV

“Brian.”

He pretends to be asleep, pretends he doesn’t hear my voice. I know he isn’t sleeping. I can read the tension in his
beautiful body as he lies, stomach down, naked, across that big platform bed. I grant him this small dignity. I
understand. I don’t know what to say, anyway. What can be said? If those supernatural hazel eyes meet mine, and if
they reflect the pain I know he’s feeling, I might cave.

Caving would be a disaster.

“I love you, Brian,” I whisper as I slide open the heavy door to the loft, maybe for the last time. Perhaps he heard
me, perhaps he didn’t. It doesn’t really matter. He already knows. This isn’t about my not loving him. This is about
my loving him too much.

No one will see it that way. I’m the villain. I wear the black hat. I valued my career over the love of my life. Perhaps
I even gamed him, pursuing an impossible commitment until I got it, and then, I grew bored with my victory. That’s
probably the ugliest spin on what I’m doing, and I’m sure there are many who will embrace it. Why not? It makes
sense.

If our lives were a television show, I would be the one you’d love to hate. It’s supposed to be Brian, but you’d find
out, as I did, that his big bad outlaw routine is all an act. Underneath that façade is the damaged soul of a child. On
the other hand, I had it all, or so it would seem. You might root for me at first, feel sorry for me, later, as I try to
navigate the dark corridors of Brian’s refusal to believe in love. You’d bleed with me when I suffered a significant
gay bashing, and cheer when Brian helped me heal. But then you’d scratch your head in wonder when I let him push
me off a cliff, and went for someone who promised what I thought I wanted, but who delivered nothing.

That’s when you’d lose faith in me, as he did, as I did in myself. From then on, every move I made was misguided. I
floundered. I wanted Brian back, and I got him. But the distrust, the lack of connection, was always there,
expressing itself by his putting others between us to maintain a distance. To protect himself from pain.

There was a brief moment when it seemed everything was right between us, even though everything else was going
wrong around us. We had each other, and that was enough. We had become a team. But life isn’t a television show,
and it didn’t resolve that easily.

What you might have seen by observing a small slice of our relationship onscreen wouldn’t give you the facts you
really need to see what’s happening between us. All this background doesn’t really matter, anyway. Let me be the
one you hate.

I’m the unlikely man who broke Brian Kinney’s heart.

For those who think he has no heart, or that it can’t be broken by love, guess again. I did it. I know that. And now
I’m leaving the pieces for others to reconstruct. I pray that his unreliable friends will step up to the plate, for once,
and help him get through the pain he will never even show them. Another man might get that chance, I know that’s a
big possibility. I’ve penetrated barriers that Brian never thought could be penetrated, and that leaves him vulnerable
for someone new to waltz in and take my place.

Don’t think I haven’t considered that outcome. Someone more his age, someone equal to his financial status.
Someone who has enough experience in life to accommodate his needs without feeling hurt or betrayed. What
would I do if I came home to visit and found Brian in love with another man? I don’t know. I’d be devastated. But
I’d also understand. His new lover would never know that I made it possible for him to be loved by Brian. Before
me, those doors were tightly closed. Once I unlocked them, they’ll never close quite as tightly, even when he’s
bleeding behind the barriers.

My timing sucks.

Lindsay’s gone, and more importantly, Gus went with her. Better for me if everything else in his life was perfect,
now, but things seldom work out that way, life is imperfect. I have a sense of perverse pride in how well I’ve
handled this. I’ve been brave. I’ve put on a happy face. I’ve pretended to be enthusiastic about the adventure that is
the big city. I even played along with the faint specter of a long distance relationship.

But tonight we made love for the last time. And I will never forget the way it felt, the way he held me, the way he
breathed against my shoulder, clenched tight in repression of his sorrow.

They say your first love is never the love of your life. Not true. The minute I saw him on Liberty Avenue, when I
was a seventeen-year old virgin, I knew he was the one. He was, and is, the love of my life. What they don’t tell
you, is that finding the love of your life doesn’t mean you’ll have a perfect partnership forever.

They don’t tell you that loving someone that much can shatter you. They don’t tell you that loving someone that
much means that sometimes you have to sacrifice your own happiness in order to save the soul of the only one who
matters.

But that’s another story, and you won’t believe me, anyway.

Just think of me as the heartless, ungrateful, self-absorbed little careerist who played Brian Kinney and then handed
him his heart at 10:15 p.m., when the heavy door of the loft slid shut behind me. I suspect he will, when the pain
recedes and the bitterness sets in.

As soon as I hit the street, the cold air feels like a sword’s blade cutting me in half. I fold over, hanging onto the
railing of the stoop to keep from collapsing. The pain is so intense. No physical ailment could be this painful. It has
to come from that secret portion of the heart that medical people can’t find on an MRI, but poets know only too
well.

When I inhale, it sounds like a sob. When I exhale, it sounds like a gasp. Tears that I dammed up, flow at last, an
open wound. I can’t stop them, even as the car he arranged for me pulls up to the curb and I slump onto the back
seat.

“Are you alright?” the driver asks.

I stutter the airline I’m flying, and ignore his question. Just leave me alone. Everyone, leave me alone. Merging into
the traffic of Tremont, I don’t look back, can’t look back. I left the best part of me in that building. I left Brian
Kinney there.

A poem Lord Byron wrote, that made no impression on me in my advanced lit course in high school, returns with
eerie accuracy. A stanza from that poem “When We Two Parted” depicts my mood exactly.

“If I should meet thee,

After long years,

How should I greet thee?

With silence and tears.”

As the city melts into the anonymity of the highway, Byron returns to me once more in the aching darkness: “In
silence, I grieve.” Grief is all that I deserve.

Chapter 2: Brian’s POV

Three months later.

Justin.

I’m thinking about a dream I had last night, a dream I’ve had often since…since things changed. In the dream, I
awake in bed in the loft, only it’s still under those damned blue lights I used to hang on the wall. I slide my hand
across the bed and I touch his hip. Naked, he doesn’t stir. I spread my fingers on the firm mound of his butt. I feel
his warmth, and I smile. I’m content. I sleep again.

That’s all it is, just that.

But when I have that dream, I sleep well. Whatever happens to be wrong in my world smooths out so long as the
contentment of the dream stays with me. I’m not fucking him or sucking him or even waking him. I’m just lying in
bed with him, my hand on his hip, and that’s enough.

When I wake and he isn’t there, nor has he been, my fingers spread out on cool sheets, not warm flesh. I’m
discontent. I’m alone. This is what it's become, my life. I’m alone.

Because this solitude is what I choose. This solitude is what I deserve. This solitude is what I want.

“Let’s talk about love,” Emmett says with that Sandra Dee look on his face that makes me want to strangle him. My
memory of the dream fades. Maybe I’ll have it again tonight, but probably not. It doesn’t happen as often as I’d like.

“Check, please!” I snap at the waiter, who completely ignores me in the best tradition of the Liberty Diner. If there's
one thing I’m not doing tonight, it’s listening to Emmett gush about love. First of all, Em falls in love more often
than I shop for shoes, and that’s saying it all. Second, Em stays in love for about as long as my lust for my new
shoes lasts, which is only until the first shine. My guess is that Emmett has never been in love. Emmett has been in

lust. Emmett has been in “want to be in love”. But since I’ve known him, Emmett has not been in love. I know love.
What he had with that rich old man and with Teddy is not love.

He thinks he’s in love, now, with some old high school fuck buddy, but what’s new about that? When does he not
think he’s in love? Michael, sitting next to me in the booth, gives me that droopy, sad dog face of his that silently
asks, “Are you okay? Are you really, really, really okay? Is this hurting you?”

His concern would mean a lot more to me if I thought it was sincere. My outward reaction may be the same, disgust,
but at least it might mean something. Yet it’s not sincere. I know that now. He has his image of me, and it doesn’t
include my being in love. Being in hurt is fine. Being alone, even better. But being in love? Forget it. That’s his turf.
He gets to be the happy one, the settled one, the family man. I get to be Peter Fucking Pan. The fact is, I don’t envy
him at all. Ben’s okay, I guess. He means well, but their little suburban faggot-next-door life in Breederville is a
fucking nightmare.

Any time I go over there, and I don’t often do so, I want to fall on my knees and thank Justin. You were so right.
You were so, so right about me. That life would have strangled me. Killed me. I’m not a breeder or a faux breeder.
I’m not meant to live in some big faux Tudor mansion with a faux marriage and faux respectability. Thank you for
that, Justin.

But you went too far. You didn’t have to leave. Did you? Isn’t there some way we could be together without
destroying who we are? Are our choices really that narrow? Pittsburgh is not New York. Not in any alternative
universe. So yes, he really had to leave, I answer my own internal question yet again.

“Are you okay?” Michael verbalizes his droopy dog look, reaching over to cover my hand with his. I pull away.
God, I hate this. Don’t you fucking dare feel sorry for me!

“Why wouldn’t I be? You guys talk about love until you turn blue or red or pink or whatever color love is. I have to
go to work.” I put money on the table to cover my portion plus tip plus more. Not worth the wait for an even split.
As soon as I hit the cold night, I light up and squint down the block to the beckoning doorway of Babylon. Even in
this chill and snow, a serpentine of hopefuls lines the curb. The queers are back. You can bomb us, kill us, humiliate
us, hate us, but we’ll never go away. We’re here, we’re queer, get over your fucking prejudice.

I start walking in that direction, and in my head, Justin falls in step with me. It’s this little game I play. He’s here,
I’m not alone, I can hear his voice, feel the comfort of his presence, even see his face. “Let’s go home,” he says,
looping his arm through mine. “Let’s just throw a blanket down on the floor and fuck.”

I smile. Sounds like a plan. He’d be wearing black underwear, so would I. We’d leave it on. “Cotton mouth me,”
he’d tease, and I would fill my mouth with his dick, covered in the soft cotton of his Calvin’s. I’d suck him through
the fabric. I can close my eyes and imagine the way he tastes, precisely. I look down at my imaginary lover as we
walk. I say to him, in my head, “Later. Let’s dance, drink, get on each other in the back room.”

“Did anyone ever tell you that you’re an exhibitionist?” he asks and I nod.

“You.”

“Right again.”

He disappears as the troll at the door greets me. “Evening, Mr. Kinney.” Justin can’t be in my head when other
people are around. They may pick up on something and think I’m crazy. Maybe I am crazy. I don’t know anymore.

“Evening, Jack. Nice crowd.”

“Big crowd. Tequila Shooter night always brings ‘em in.”

I go inside the rebuilt bigger and better Babylon. My fuck you in the face of every evil radical anti-faggot who
would try to stop us from living. The music and the smell of hot, sweaty men and whoosh of energy takes my breath
away. I unzip my leather jacket and lean against the bar, surveying the crowd.

Hot guys in silver briefs and silver cowboy hats circulate the crowd. They wear two six-guns strapped to their hips
and a leather bandeleer over their chests, with cartridges of tequila where bullets belong. For a price, they load up
their plastic six guns with the cartridges, rub a slice of lime across your lips, and shoot a stream of Cuervo Gold
down your throat. I watch them work. One comes up to me. He’s like a bronze carving; he’s so cut, so shiny, so
smooth and so unreal.

“Want a free one, boss?” Deliberate double entendre. I decline both offers. I’ve had his ass and I don’t do reruns. As
for the tequila, I’m working. I don’t want to get drunk, at least not this early.

“We’re cleaning up again tonight, Brian,” Theodore joins me at the bar and eyes Shooter Boy’s fine ass as he walks
off.

“Do you mean we’re making money or do you mean the cleaning crew is fucking off again?”

He smirks at me. “Cute.”

“So they tell me.”

I adjust my package inside the crotch of these tight leather pants. Sometimes the plastic ball presses in on the real
ball and it hurts. Talk about unreal. Since I lost a testicle to cancer, acclimating to my silicone faux sperm
manufacturer is a source of unending joy. Theodore, or Igor, as I sometimes think of him, my devoted sidekick,
looks around. “Who would believe what a shambles this place was after the bombing? Look at it now. Bigger,
shinier, and more crowded than ever.”

“You can’t keep a good queer down. Well, not for longer than a blow job, anyway.”

“Seriously, Brian, you really boosted the community by giving Babylon back to us. We showed the crazy element of
breeder society that they can’t run us off, or as Em says, ‘make us hide our shine’.”

“It’s not about hiding shine, or not hiding shine, Theodore. It’s about money. No alternative plan for Babylon
showed the same yield as re-opening it, bigger and better than before.”

“Brian, you may be able to make that work with others, but I do the books, remember? I was there for the financial
analysis.”

“Oh yeah,” I motion to the bartender to refill my club soda and lime. “I thought we were doing well, however. Am I
wrong?”

“We are, but you had some other offers of sizeable profitability.”

“Not nearly as many opportunities to skim off the new stuff, however,” I smile at a pretty young thing. He smiles
back at me. A glance over his bare shoulder catches me as he turns. He wants to see me look at his butt. I don’t
disappoint. I know what I’ll be doing later tonight.

“What have you heard from Justin?” Theodore throws it out there like a steaming wad of shit, melting the snow on
which it lands. It always amazes me when Theodore touches that third rail, over and over again. It’s almost as if he
gets a sick thrill from the pain. I glare at him, not giving it away. Try as he might, he’ll never get me to give
anything away. He doesn’t have that kind of power.

“I thought you had a financial quarter to close for Kinnetic. Shouldn’t you be burning the midnight oil back at the
ranch instead of soaking up the rays at the spa end of our business?”

“But…”

“On my desk, nine a.m., Theodore.”

He bottoms up his drink and skulks out of the club. Bastard. What do I hear from Justin? Do these people enjoy
being cruel or are they just stupid? Both, maybe. I lose the connection with the nice new piece of ass on the dance
floor. It just isn’t in me tonight. Or rather, I don’t care if I’m in him. I see that jerk-off, Brandon, slink over to him.
He gives me this little half-smile of triumph. Like I care what he does. Never have, never will. I made my point with
him long ago.

I light a cigarette and walk past the memorial to the bombing without looking at it. It’s a corner of the original bar,
broken and singed by the devastation. The names of everyone who died here are engraved in the wood and the
whole thing is kept under glass. I never go by when someone hasn’t left a rose, a rainbow ribbon, some token of
remembrance. They never caught the bomber. I suspect they never looked very hard. Dead queers don’t really count.

I go upstairs to the private room, and this door troll smiles and waves me in. You have to have a card that I
personally issue to get past this troll, or, in my case, you have to own the place. Every night I give out temporary
cards to the hottest guys in the club, but only a few have permanent passes. The interior is a cross between a Turkish
whorehouse and an opium den. I spread out on a silk couch and light a joint.

To my left, a new hottie is being fellated by a regular, also hot. On my right, three naked bodies writhe on the
cushions. I don’t watch them long enough to identify them. I yawn. I’m bored. I have a lot to do tomorrow, at the
agency. Being an ad man by day and a gay dance venue owner by night is a ridiculous undertaking. Pick one, Brian,
but I can’t. I love them both.

“Guess who?” Soft hands come from behind to cover my eyes. The smell is sweet and familiar. I don’t know who it
is, someone I did once, I suppose, but I do know who it isn’t.

It isn’t him.

Here it comes.

The tsunami.

Rolling up from the soles of my feet, twisting through my gut, gripping my heart in icy claws, and reminding me
again that he is good and truly gone. Gone. My breath comes in filtered through clenched teeth, and my face grows
uncomfortably warm. I twist out of this man’s touch. “I don’t like that.” I seethe at him as he smiles. He’s young,
pretty. Yeah, I’ve done him.

“But Brian…”

I send him off by sweeping my fingers forward, back of my hand facing him. I need this pain. I welcome it. I want
it. It reminds me of something very important, something that has a way of eluding me, most of the time.

The pain reminds me that I’m still fucking alive; alive enough to hurt. And that must mean something, right? That
must mean something. I just don’t know exactly what it is.

“Let’s go home and fuck,” Justin’s shade whispers to me in a voice no one else can hear. I close my eyes.

“Yes,” I answer in my mind. “Let’s do.”

Someone touches my crotch. Someone else kisses me. Some third man clamps my nipple through my shirt with his
teeth. I close my eyes and let them have my body. My mind is somewhere else. Somewhere familiar. A place that no
longer exists for me, except in a walking phantasm or a sleeping dream.

Who needs reality? In fantasy, control is absolute. Control, I remind myself, has been my one constant friend.

Chapter 3: Jennifer’s POV

Who the hell buys or sells real estate during the Christmas holidays? Everyone, it seems! My phone won’t stop
jangling and my assistant is off to visit her family. I thought it would be quiet. I thought I could leave early and stop
at the grocery store and then go home to prepare a nice dinner for Justin’s homecoming and finish my gift wrapping,
and so on and so forth, the life of a working mother. The stress of this particular Christmas is miserable.

Molly is at that hateful age, not a kid, but not yet a woman, and Justin is still bleeding over the whole Brian Kinney
debacle. Brian is, too. I can’t blame either of them for what happened, because I don’t have all the facts. Those two
are so stubborn, so foolish to risk what appears to be the “real thing” over the inconveniences of establishing a life
together. They’re young, they don’t understand how rare that “real thing” really is, how unlikely either of them will
find it again.

Unfortunately, this is not the kind of lesson you can teach people. This is the kind of thing they have to learn for
themselves, and often, they learn it too late. I hear the buzzer, telling me the front door has opened, and I wave in
that direction to signal I’ll be right with them. I’m trying to tie up a phone call with a title company. Putting on my
best, non-frantic face, I turn and smile at my visitor when I hang up. I see that it’s Brian.

My almost son-in-law.

He looks predictably tall and devastating in his black cashmere long coat, dusted with snow. A red cashmere scarf
forms a bleeding wound around his long, elegant neck. The cold temperature gives him a flush, and he disguises his
eyes behind dark glasses. Gloved hands hold a small box wrapped in silver paper with a red velvet bow. I walk over
to greet him, feeling him tense as I put a hand on his arm and stretch to kiss his cold cheek. “Sorry, Brian. I’ve just
been buried today.” The phone rings. I ignore it.

“Need to get that?” He tucks his glasses into a pocket. His eyes, he does have the most beautiful, expressive eyes,
are still carefully shielded. I feel sad that he feels the need to hide his emotions from me. Sad, but not surprised.

“No, they can call back. Sit down. Do you want some coffee? It may be a little strong, but…”

“No thanks. I can’t stay,” he hovers, but doesn’t sit. “I just thought you could give this to Justin. It’s completely
impractical, but I don’t believe in practical gifts.”

He thrusts the package at me, but I don’t immediately take it. “Give it to him yourself, Brian. Come to dinner this
evening.”

“I can’t,” he sets the package down on my desk. “I’m on my way to the airport.”

“You won’t be here for Christmas?” I know this will be a blow to Justin. I’m sure he was hoping to see Brian. How
could he not be? Do they never even talk? God, I wish I understood what was happening between these two.
Whenever I try to approach the subject with my son, up goes the Great Wall of China. I know better than to even try
and pierce Brian’s armor.

“I’m going to Toronto to see Gus.”

“Oh. I was hoping the girls were coming here.”

“No, they want to establish a home base for the kids. Get them accustomed to their new environment. They see the
holidays as part of that process.”

“Is Michael going with you?”

“No.” The “thank God” is implied in his tone. “I think he and Ben are driving up after Christmas.”

“When will you be back?”

“I’m not sure. I’m going to fly to Banff from there and ski for a few days. I need a break.”

A very smooth, superficially disconnected way to avoid Justin. “He’ll only be here for a few days, Brian. I know he
wants to see you.”

“Did he tell you that?” The hope in his voice, in his eyes, is so raw that I almost lie and say ‘yes’. I know Justin does
want to see him, despite the fact they’ve imposed this cone of silence. Or whatever the hell it is. But I can’t lie. It
just wouldn’t be fair.

“No, but…”

“Yeah,” he cuts me off. “Give him that, okay?” he leans down to kiss my cheek. “Merry Christmas to you and
Molly, too.”

“Brian, what’s going on with you two?”

“Nothing,” he says with a flat smile. “Nothing at all. Ciao.” He gives me a little wave and then he’s gone. The
ringing phone startles me out of my melancholy.

“Jennifer Taylor,” I answer, back on auto-pilot.

“Jesus, Mother, do you ever pick up? I’ve called three times!” My son’s annoyance is clear.

“I’m sorry. I was talking to Brian.”

Pause. “Brian?”

“Yes, he dropped off a present for you.”

“Is he still there?”

“No, he just left.”

“Why did he give it to you?”

“Justin, do you know he’s going to Toronto to see Gus?”

I can hear his slow exhale. “No. But I guess it makes sense.”

“You two never talk?”

“We’ve talked.”

“And yet you don’t even seal plans to meet at Christmas?”

“Mother, if my visit is going to be an unending inquisition about what happened with Brian and me, forget it. Not
interested.”

“Ok, calm down. Where are you?”

“I’m on the plane, about to be told to turn off my phone so we can take off. You’re picking me up, right?”

“Of course. I have all the information.”

“Okay. I’ll see you in a little while.”

“Safe trip, honey.”

“Mom, how did he look?”

“He’s Brian. He looked gorgeous.”

“Right, of course. Okay, later.”

As we hang up, I rethink my Christmas gift to my wonderful son. Instead of a gift certificate to that art supply house
in the Village that he likes so much, and some money on his rent, I should give him a group discount to a marriage

counselor, and make sure Brian gets in with him for free. Maybe they aren’t married, but they need something to
break this log-jam of stubborn determination that blocks their happiness. If I thought Justin didn’t love him
anymore, or vice versa, I’d be less bothered. It would hurt, I’d be sad, but I’d move on.

He does love Brian, and Brian loves him, which makes this all the more ridiculous. It also makes me angry. No one
has the right to waste love. It happens so rarely and is such a precious gift that we all have a stake in nurturing it. If I
thought they were better off apart, or happier, I’d stay out of it. But they aren’t.

“What’s this?” Molly has come into my office and she picks up the package, examines it, shakes it, until I finally
take it from her.

“It’s for your brother.”

“I thought you already got him what he’s getting,” the two of them still measure their gifts against each other like
little children.

“It’s not from me. It’s from Brian.”

Her big blue eyes grow wide and she flips that red hair behind her shoulder. She’s as pretty as Justin is, in her own
way. That worries me. She’s not that much younger than Justin was when he met Brian and his whole life changed.
“Oh. Why do you have it?”

I explain the drop-off and she sighs. “They're so weird.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean,” she says with all the wisdom of someone who’s never experienced great love. “Why don’t they just sit
down together and figure it out? What’s the big drama?”

I smile at my daughter. May she always have such clarity about her own love life. “Sometimes that’s easier said than
done, Molly.”

“Whatever,” she shrugs. “Can I have twenty-dollars? I need to get another present for someone.”

“Who?”

“Someone, Mother!” She sees no need to explain and I see no need to give her twenty dollars, so she leaves in a
huff. I pick up the present Brian left. I give it a little shake. I recognize the store on the silver label. Not cheap. He’s
right, it’s impractical, but so Brian. The door opens and in walks a delivery man carrying a huge pot of white
poinsettias. “Where do you want this, lady?”

I motion to the window that faces the street. The flowers have a card attached, and I open it to read, “Merry
Christmas, Brian”. I sigh and slip it into my pocket as my fingers drift over the velvety petal of a bloom. Pretty
poison, that’s what poinsettias are. Lethal to pets, but pretty to look at. Once, I would’ve thought the same thing
about Brian Kinney. Not anymore. Now I see Brian as every bit the victim as Justin, if not more so. Because Justin
believes in love, and for Brian it was a big leap of faith.

This has got to be fixed. But what can I do besides “butt out” as my son so delicately puts it? I phone a familiar
number. A familiar female voice answers. I identify myself and say, “I need your help in a conspiracy.”

Her laugh convinces me that my instinct in calling her was correct.

Chapter 4: Justin POV

When I walked into Woody’s, I felt like I did the first time I went there after I got bashed. I no longer belonged.
Everyone was staring at me. People whispered. I scanned the room for Brian, even though I knew he wasn’t there. I
don’t see any of the old gang, but a couple distant friends greet me. A couple strangers cruise me. Living in New
York for even a short period of time has imposed a distance, but I feel much more relaxed here than I do in the few
gay bars I’ve visited in my new home base. Maybe it’s just familiarity.

At the bar, I order a beer and my memory slips to a moment when Brian was seated beside me, wearing a sleeveless
sweater vest to show off his beautiful arms. He touched my forehead with his. It doesn’t matter why, it doesn’t
matter what he said, what was our issue “du jour.” I just remember how it felt when he touched my forehead with
his. How sweet that gesture was, and how loving.

I’ve done well up until this minute, being back in Pittsburgh. I had dinner with my mother and Molly, who’s become
a little bitch. I don’t know how my mother puts up with her, but then, my mother put up with me when I was a little

bitch, too. I saw Brian’s gift, took it to my room, but didn’t open it. Couldn’t open it. That was tough. But I did okay
with the rest of the evening, and now I’m here.

Why am I here? Why not. This was home for me, for so long. Woody’s was always welcoming, always friendly.
Babylon has so many other memories attached to it, good and bad, but Woody’s is far more emotionally neutral.

“Aren’t you Justin Taylor?” A man sits next to me. He’s hot, but I’m not in the market for company. I don’t
recognize him. He smiles. I nod. He extends a hand towards me. I automatically shake it, a victim of good breeding.
He says, “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For kicking Brian Kinney to the curb.”

I draw back from him. “What are you talking about?”

“Are you serious? You’re a hero to a lot of men in Pittsburgh who fell victim to the Brian Kinney hit and run
machine. It’s nice to see the tables turned on him. And by someone so young. Good job!”

I stand up, clutching my beer in one fist, wanting to crack the bottle over his head. “I never kicked Brian to the curb
or anywhere else. Our relationship is none of your fucking business, but if you think there was a smack-down on
Brian, you’re in for a disappointment.” I walk away before he can answer. I sit down at a table, still fuming.

“Look who’s here!” Emmett’s voice intrudes. He’s with someone I don’t know, a cute guy who seems to be hanging
on him like a shawl. He kisses my cheek, introduces me to the new boyfriend who gives me a warning glare as he
leaves us to get drinks at the bar. As if he has to worry about my macking on Emmett. How sick would that be?

I explain that I’m home for Christmas and Emmett says, “But you missed Brian! He left for Toronto today!”

“I know.” My tone suggests he should leave it there, and he does.

“So tell me about your fancy artist’s loft in Tribeca and all the exciting things you’ve been doing in the city!”

I laugh. Emmett is an exclamation point factory. Everything he says has that kind of emphasis. “I share a fourth
floor walk up in East Village with three roommates, Em.”

“Hot?”

“Two are female and the third is straight. Well, all are straight, except me.”

“That’s bad planning.”

I laugh. “It’s all I could afford. I do have a loft, sort of. I work part time at a poster shop on Houston Street and they
let me use their attic for my work. It’s unheated and no running water, but it has natural light and space. I need a lot
of space to work. It’s not liveable, but it’s great for painting.”

“From the perfect loft on Tremont to a fourth floor walk up and an attic? You are so brave!”

Brave? I shake my head at that. “It’s not about being brave, Emmett. It’s about doing it on my own. I have to do it
on my own. You understand that?”

He blinks in such a way that I know he doesn’t get it, but I can’t explain. It makes perfect sense to me. I can’t let
Brian bankroll my life in New York, even if he wanted to. It’s not a matter of pride. It’s a matter of doing what’s
right. The new boyfriend rejoins us and he even has a fresh bottle of beer for me. He must be fairly new at the gay
thing if he doesn’t understand that Emmett and I are on the same side of the ledger. I’m not his competition.

After a drink, they decide to go to Babylon for some fun, but I am totally not in the mood for that, and I'm meeting
someone here. I'm curious to see what Brian’s done to the place, but the memory of smoke and blast and bombs is
still fresh for me. I don’t want to be there without him.

We stood outside that devastation the first time he told me he loved me. That is, the first time he said the words.
He’s told me he loves me in so many ways before then, but I was young and didn’t hear him. The words meant a lot.
They still do. I think of that moment every day. The intensity in his eyes, the catch in his voice, the pressure of his
strong body against mine.

“Lost in space?” Daphne gives me a Deb smack on the back of my head and I glare at her. I can’t stay mad, though.
I’ve missed her.

“You look twelve,” I tease, as I take in her bulky sweater, jeans and those big fur-lined boots that girls swear by. Her
hair is in two braids and she’s so tiny that she looks younger than Molly. I shouldn’t tease her. I still get carded
everywhere I go.

“So do you, Goldilocks,” she tugs on a string of my hair. I know I need a haircut, but things like food and rent keep
interfering with my beauty regimen. We’re going to a Christmas party at one of her friend’s places, something I
agreed to in a weak moment. Straight parties are such a drag. But staying home with my mom is even worse. She
keeps staring at me like she expects me to open up and tell her everything. It’s not happening.

Only when I take Daphne home after the party and we’re lounging at her place, do we really talk. We’re lying on her
bed, on our backs, side by side, sharing a joint and staring up at the water spots on the ceiling. My artistic mind
makes shapes out of them. A snowman. A lamb. The head of a lion. “I had lunch with Brian yesterday,” she shoots
me in the eye. I turn to look at her.

“And?”

“And?” She shrugs. “And nothing. He gave me these,” she hops up, retrieves a pair of black kid gloves lined in
cashmere. “Aren’t they the most elegant gloves you’ve ever seen? I’m afraid to wear them,” she flops down on her
side, watching me admire the gloves.

“Why did he give you these?”

“I sent him a box of Godivas.”

I wince. “Brian doesn’t eat junk.”

“Godiva is not junk. I don’t care. I didn’t know what to give him, but I wanted to give him something and this was
such a beautiful box all wrapped up with gold ribbons and stars.”

“He probably just re-gifted it to a client.”

“Justin, I don’t care what he does with the candy. It was the thought.”

I nod and hand her the gloves. “It was a nice thought, Daph.”

“What are you giving him?”

“What makes you think I’m giving him anything?”

“I know you.”

“I painted a very small canvas for the bathroom at the loft. He always wanted something for the blank wall. I put
some red in it to warm up the dark colors. He’ll like it. But then I find out he’s in Toronto, so I guess I’ll just leave it
with my mother to give him.”

“You can’t leave without seeing him.”

“I may not have a choice. I have to get back. I need this part time job so I don’t lose my studio.” I take a toke and
then ask, “How did he seem?”

“He’s Brian. He’s always cool, always confident, always gorgeous, always snarky. But there’s something missing
under that shell, Justin. Some emptiness in his eyes. When he asked if I heard from you. When he talked about Gus.”

“I know how he feels.”

“Then why are you two apart?”

“Because we have to be, Daphne.”

“Explain.”

“Quit asking me to explain. You’re always asking me to explain.”

“And you never do.”

“And I never will.”

“Why?”

“Because no matter how I try to put it in words, it never sounds right. I know how I feel. I know what’s right, but I
can’t make sense of it when I try to explain. Can we change the subject?”

“Are you dating anyone?”

I laugh. “I’m not looking to date anyone.”

“Why not?”

“I’m still in love with Brian.”

“But…”

“Have I tricked with anyone? Yeah. So? He has too. It’s meaningless.”

“This is so fucked up.”

“I know.” I sit up and reach for my jacket. “I guess I’d better go. I’d stay over but my mother would be hurt. She
wouldn’t say anything, but I’d know. Tomorrow is Christmas Eve. Are you spending it with your folks?”

“Yeah, but I’ll call you. Maybe we can escape and see a movie or something.”

“I’ll be ready for a break,” I pause at her door. “Daphne, thanks for being a friend to Brian.”

“Don’t thank me, you dweeb. I love Brian. More than I love you.”

I grin at her. “You so want to fuck him.”

“And that makes me different in what way?”

“None,” I reply with a shrug. She’s right. They all want to fuck him, male or female. Even some so-called straight
males find him pretty irresistible. And doesn’t he know it? I walk out into the cold, and get into my mother’s
borrowed car. I plan to go straight home, but some homing signal makes me drive past the loft on Tremont. There’s
a low light burning behind the closed drapes, but no one is home. How many men have crossed that threshold since
I’ve been gone? Only to be shown the door after they performed their function? It doesn’t matter. None of them
matter.

“I don’t believe in love, I believe in fucking,” he told me, standing right there, barefoot and beautiful in his t-shirt
and jeans. I cried. He looked wistful. Did he know then, even that early, that there was something different about
what he felt for me? I think he did. I think he knew that first night. I think I scared him to death.

“I believe in love, Brian,” I whisper as I put the car into drive and pull away from the loft. “And so do you.”

Chapter 5: Brian’s POV

I’m finally alone with my boy.

It’s not that I haven’t wanted to see Lindsay. I’ve missed her. And while I don’t care if I ever see Melanie again, she
has behaved pretty well (for her) during this visit. The only poison I’m getting from her is her poisonous glare. The
forked tongue hasn’t made an appearance yet. Michael’s kid was very needy, clinging to me without invitation,
which made Gus mad. He wanted my undivided attention, and that was pretty much my plan, too.

But men are a rarity in this house, something exotic, so I can’t blame the kid for finding me irresistible. At least in
Pittsburgh the dykes had male friends. Gay, yes, but still male. There was a dick influence in the house. Here, their
world appears to be all female all the time, except for poor little Gus. I worry about that. It’s not that I think dykes
can't be good mothers, or that Gus will grow up twisted, but I still think a gender balance helps with any child.

Now I’m alone with Gus in his room, huddled up in his bed, with the pop-up version of “The Night Before
Christmas” open between us, an early gift from me. He smells so sweet, that “clean baby” smell that nothing else
can mimic, even though he’d be pissed at me for thinking of him as a “baby”. He feels familiar in my arms, that
little bundle of muscle and grit. But I swear to God he’s grown in the short period of time that we’ve been apart.

I kick off my shoes and fold a pillow behind my back. I’m tired, more tired than I thought, and being here with him
is soothing. “Read it to me, Daddy,” he says as the first image pops up with a man in a nightshirt and stocking cap
going over to a window.

“Why don’t you read it to me, Gus? I’m tired.”

“Cuz I don’t know all the words.”

“Make them up,” I pull him against my arm, watching his creative mind take over the challenge.

“This man wakes up because Santa Claus and his reindeer are making noise at his house,” he says with a slight
condemnation in his voice for Santa’s antics. He then explains the collateral information. “See, the mouse is asleep
there, too, Daddy, inside his little mouse hole. And the children are dreaming about candy and stuff.”

The next page pops up. I’m into his version of the tale. This one shows the fat man’s sleigh and reindeer. “See this is
where Santa Claus and his reindeer land up on the roof. Have you ever seen Santa on the roof, Daddy?”

“Can’t say that I have, Gus.”

“I have.”

“You have? When?”

“I don’t remember, but I have,” he says firmly, and I see no reason to question him. I’m not sure when it happened,
but at some point in time, Gus’s rendition of the poem put me to sleep. When I awoke, the only light on in the room
was the carousel nightlight that cast a carnival shadow on the walls. The blanket was pulled over both of us and he
slept cuddled up to my mid-section. This small twin bed wasn’t meant for a man my size, let alone a man my size
and his squirmy son.

I carefully sit up, repositioning him on the pillow, and then swing my feet to the floor. I consider settling back down,
even though I have a luxurious room waiting for me at the Four Seasons. At this moment, there's no guy I’d rather
spend the night with than Gus. Well, maybe one, but that’s not happening. There’s an incredible comfort I get from
my son, one I really undervalued until he was gone. There is such a connection there, such a pull, that it makes me
wonder again how my own father could so completely disregard his connection to me. Sad.

I slip into my shoes and kiss his plump cheek. He squirms a little, but doesn’t wake up. I’ll have more time with him
tomorrow and facing morning’s light with the lesbians is more than I can stomach right now. I make my way
downstairs in this little salt box house of theirs that is so like their old house in Pittsburgh that it’s eerie. Or maybe
it’s just that any house with their shit in it will end up looking the same. The only thing I really like about their décor
is the painting Justin gave them. I wish I had that painting.

I plan to get my coat, and slip away in my rental car to go to the hotel, and return tomorrow at a sensible time. But
Lindsay surprises me. She’s seated by the fire in the main room, reading a novel. Wrapped in a red velvet robe, she
looks a little like Mrs. Claus when the Clauses were newlyweds. Or maybe Gus’s reading made a bigger impression
than I thought.

“I thought you might be down for the night,” she says with a smile. “I didn’t have the heart to wake you.”

“I think I outgrew twin beds a few inches ago,” I sit down on the couch, straightening my hair with both hands. “I
hope they held my room for late arrival.”

“Want to call?”

“No, it’ll be fine. How many people travel to Toronto for Christmas? The hotel will be empty.”

“I’m glad you came here, Brian. It means so much to Gus.”

I glance at the Christmas tree in the corner, the colored lights twinkling with more merriment than I feel. “I miss
him, Lindsay. I need to have more time with him.”

“You’re welcome any time, you know that.”

“Not as long as Melanie shares your bed. But look, I have a business to run, two businesses to run. I thought it might
be nice if we worked something out where Gus could come stay with me occasionally.”

“And who would take care of him when he was there?”

“I would,” I respond with a scowl. “I’m not incompetent.”

“No, but like you said, you have two businesses to run.”

“I’d make it work.”

“It would’ve been easier if you’d kept that big house in the country. Your loft isn’t really set up for children.”

The Tudor Mansion rears its ugly head once more. I’ve done some stupid, impulsive things in my life, but that was
one of the dumber moves. How long before that ridiculous house turned into “The Shining” and I was chopping
down doors with an ax and chasing Justin through the maze? What was I thinking? Once again, I’m grateful for his
foresight. I’m also thankful for his mother’s ability to get the deal canceled and keep my loft for me. I owe Jennifer
big time for that, and I know it cost her a fortune in commissions.

“My loft is fine,” I tell her. I’m not letting her get away with that one. “So what do you think?”

“I’d have to talk to Melanie. He has school, we’re trying to get him settled here, so it’s not all that easy.”

“When you left, it was with the understanding that I’d be able to see Gus, remember? I pay child support like
clockwork, Lindsay. I deserve better than this. You promised you wouldn’t let him forget me. You promised he
could come see me.”

“I’m not saying he can’t. I’m just saying things are a little different, now, Brian. You didn’t keep that nice house
with all the room, and you were part of a stable relationship, then, and now you’re not.”

I can’t get my brain wrapped around this logic. “I can only see my son if I have a country place and a partner?”

“Your sexual escapades are not exactly the right atmosphere for a boy, Brian.”

“My sexual escapades have nothing to do with Gus. I would never bring that around him, I think you know that.”

“I thought I heard voices,” I tense as Melanie comes downstairs in her drawstring pajama bottoms and wifebeater,
the little “man” of the family. “You’re still here?”

“Not for long.”

She sits on the arm of Lindsay’s chair with a proprietary air, as if I’m competition and she’s pissing on her stump to
mark her territory. “What’s the problem?”

“The problem is I was trying to explain to Brian that it’s not as easy for Gus to spend time with him alone in
Pittsburgh now that he’s in the loft and has no partner.”

“What would he do with him?” Melanie observed with a shrug. “Take him to Babylon?”

“I don’t need that shit from you,” I remind her. “Look, you promised me, Lindsay. I’m asking you to live up to that
promise.”

“And I’m telling you things changed since then. It’s not as if Justin is coming back, Brian.”

That hits me like a speeding bullet. “How do you know?” Whether it’s true or not, what the fuck? Why would she
say something like that? Does she know how hurtful it is? Does she know how important hope, even when it’s
unlikely, is for me?

“When I told him he needed to get his butt to New York…”

“When did you tell him that?” I interrupt.

“What?” Her innocent look has an edge of tension, as if she realizes she said too much.

“When did you tell Justin he should get his butt to New York?”

“About the time that article came out praising his work.”

“That same article that you made sure that I saw?”

“It was a milestone for him, for any artist.”

My gaze travels to his painting over their mantle. I remember looking at it in their home in Pittsburgh when they
were packing, and being told I hope I knew what he was sacrificing for me. At the same time, he was being told he
needed to move to New York? A very unpleasant truth that’s nagged at me for some time just crystallized in my
thick head.

“What were you more jealous of, Lindsay? Justin having the success as an artist that you never had or Justin having
me?”

“What are you talking about?” She responds with a glare as Melanie laughs.

“It’s his colossal ego again, getting control of his mouth. Haven’t you heard? Everyone wants Brian Kinney, at least
for a little while. They soon learn that it’s not worth keeping. Justin did, Michael did, even you, finally, saw him for
what he is.”

I stand and slip into my coat. I suddenly feel like a pawn in a very ugly game. A game with no point that I can see,
other than to drive a wedge of uncertainty between two people in love. I’m ashamed that I let myself be

manipulated, even a little. I always knew Lindsay had unrequited feelings for me. I never let myself believe they
colored her feelings for Justin. But when I combine that with her frustrated career as an artist confronted by his
talent, the whole thing becomes painfully clear. This isn’t the time or the place. I need to get away by myself and
think. I feel betrayed.

I feel really betrayed.

I don’t continue the fight. I just leave. I want to see Gus tomorrow. I don’t want that door slammed in my face. I
need to think about the rest of it, about my options. I get in the car and drive towards the hotel. Without considering
the hour, I reach for my cell phone and dial a number. Finally, he answers. Sleepy voice. I suddenly can’t think of
anything to say. I want to hang up, but he says,

“Brian, I know it’s you. I have a ring assigned to your number.”

I smile slightly. “What is it?”

“Save the Last Dance for Me.”

I wonder if he can hear my heart break across the miles?

SILENCE AND TEARS, Chapter 6

“Were you just going to hang up without saying anything?” I ask him. He’s in a car, I can hear the faint drone of
traffic behind him. He answers with a low laugh.

“I was considering it.”

“Why?”

“It’s late, it was impulsive…seemed stupid on reflection.”

“You’re in Toronto?”

“Yeah.”

“Late to be visiting Gus. Have you been hitting the club scene? I heard it’s pretty good,” I’m careful to avoid
sounding judgmental or jealous. It’s funny, when Brian and I were together, the club scene that was such a siren’s
call for him was less troubling to me than it is now. Now I wonder if he’s looking for someone new, even
subliminally. Back then, he never wanted more than a sexual encounter. I even shared the scene with him when we
were a couple. Now, he prowls alone. I worry, but I have no right to condemn.

“I fell asleep with Gus. I’m on my way to the hotel. Shit, I think I just missed my exit. Pulling over so we can talk
without my becoming even more lost.”

“Is it safe where you’re stopping?”

“Quit being my mother, Justin. I hate the one I have.”

I smile. “How’s Gus? How are the girls?”

“I woke you up, didn’t I?”

“Yes, but so what? I’m staying with my mom. Not much to do but sleep.”

“Did you open your present?” He means the one from him, of course.

“Not yet. I’m saving it for the day. I have something for you, too. I’ll leave it here with my mom.”

“Thanks.”

“So…are you avoiding my question?” It’s so wonderful to just be talking to him, hearing his familiar voice, the
whisper of his inhalation of cigarette smoke, the whoosh when he exhales. I close my eyes and can almost feel him
here with me. Smell him. Taste him. I stop before this call takes an unexpected twist.

“No, Gus is fine, seems bigger to me. He read me a bedtime story.”

I laugh. “Isn’t that wrong way round?”

“He liked doing it and it put me to sleep.”

“If only I’d known that was the trick.”

A chuckle. “It only works when it’s a kid reading to me. I’m sure I would’ve found something erotic in your
rendition. And then we’d start working on the distraction.”

I smile at that fact. “So how are the girls?” He takes too long to answer, and then says,

“I think they’re a pair of perfectly matched cunts.”

Whoa. That surprises me! I know Brian has no love for Melanie, but he does for Lindsey and dropping her in that
expletive is a shocker. “What happened?”

“Let me ask you something. Did Lindsay talk to you about moving to New York after your review came out?”

“Yeah.”

“What did you tell her?”

“I told her I would rather stay in Pittsburgh with you than follow that dragon to New York.” He’s quiet for a
moment. I can read what he’s thinking. I did tell her that, but it was before everything started getting weird. “Why
do you ask?”

“Because she made sure I saw the review and that she told me how important it was, and then Melanie reminded me
of how much you were sacrificing for me.”

I sigh. I see where he’s going with this. “I didn’t move to New York because Lindsay thought I should or because
Melanie believed it was where I should live. I know there’s an interpretation that they were manipulating us, trying
to cause trouble or force a separation, and maybe it’s true. But it wasn’t my motivation in going.”

“Whether it was or wasn’t, they were playing us. And now Lindsay’s telling me Gus can’t come see me in
Pittsburgh because I didn’t keep the big house and because I don’t have a partner.”

“That is just fucked up!” I can’t believe she’s being so punitive and in a way that is sure to hurt Brian most. Not only
is she keeping his son away, but she’s underlining for him that his own personal losses are why Gus won’t be
allowed to visit.

“Yeah, it is.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Yeah.”

“I miss you.”

“Yeah.”

“Is that all you can say?”

“No. I miss you, too.”

There’s a keening silence between us, bony fingers clawing at our hearts. “I left for you,” I manage to say and he
answers,

“I know why you left.”

“You do?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because you knew the whole marriage thing was just wrong for us, for me, and so was the house and all of that
bullshit. You were right about that.”

I exhale, feeling a great weight lift. “It isn’t just you, Brian. I realized that it was wrong for me, too. I thought it was
what I wanted, but it isn’t. Not at this stage of my life, anyway. I don’t need to be a poster boy for same sex unions.
But I also had another reason for going. A more selfish reason.”

“Because we hit a wall and there was no real path for us to be together?”

“Damn, is that what you think? That we hit a wall?”

“I don’t know. It sure felt like a wall.”

“I had to prove something to myself. And I think you have something to prove to yourself, too.”

“Dying to hear,” a little of the Kinney sarcasm seeps into that remark. I smile.

“I have to prove that I can do this. I can be an artist. On my own, calling my own shots, make or break, all on my
own talent. It didn’t have to be in New York. I don’t buy that New York is some mecca for artists. A lot of famous
American artists never lived there, even if they showed in the city. Most, in fact. There’s only one Andy Warhol,
and I’m not him. I don’t need to go from Pittsburgh to New York and try to create myself as some media maven.
That’s not my idea of art. I could have moved to Philly or Chicago or anywhere. But New York seemed logical, and
I had a connection for an apartment. I knew that I had to move out of Pittsburgh because as long as I stayed here, it
was too easy to let you support me.”

“Is that so bad?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because I want to be your equal.”

He laughs. “I’ll always be older, taller and more heinous than you. You’ll never catch up.”

“Not in those categories, maybe, but to be your partner, I can’t be your protégé, Brian. I can’t be someone you want
to turn into the best homosexual I can be. I have to find my own evolution and come to you on equal footing so the
balance between us isn’t so one-sided. To do that, I have to prove to myself what I can do with my talent.”

“And what? I’m supposed to wait? For how long?”

“That’s the hard part, I know. I can’t ask or expect that. It scares me, the possibility of losing you while I’m trying to
find myself. But if I caved and came to you half-formed, it isn’t fair to either one of us. I need to know who and
what I am, and you deserve nothing less in a partner.”

“When did you have this revelation?”

“Before I left.”

“You never expressed it.”

“I sort of did. But it was hard to say anything when every inch of my body was in agony over leaving.”

“You seemed together enough,” he doesn’t mean for it to sound like an indictment, but it is.

“So did you. We were both lying.”

He says nothing. I know. Finally, he says, “So what is my big quest while you’re off evolving into my equal? Which
is ridiculous, but I don’t want to start a fight.”

“You’re already on it.”

“Am I? If so, it’s a mystery quest.”

“You’re finding out what those words you said to me on the night of the bombing really mean to you. What they
mean to your life. What, if anything, they mean for our future. And it isn’t marriage. And it isn’t a big house in the
country and surrogate children. What is it? That’s your quest, Brian. Because no one can figure that out but you.
And on the way, you may just learn that getting older doesn’t mean the end of everything you value about yourself.”

“Easy for you to say. I gave you an option for a life with me, and yeah, maybe it was wrong. But why do I have to
figure everything out on my own? Shouldn’t two people be doing this together if there’s any purpose in it?”

“I’m working on it too, Brian. This isn’t all about my becoming an artist. It’s about becoming my own man and
being my own man includes what I want from my partner.”

“Or whom you want.”

“I know whom I want.”

“I’m sorry, but that’s hard for me to swallow right now.”

“I know.”

“I’m having a hard time, Justin,” he practically whispers and I feel his pain scorch me all the way to Pittsburgh.

“Me too.”

“I’m going to let you go, now. Have a nice Christmas with your family.”

“Brian, give Gus my love.”

“Yeah.”

“And Merry Christmas to you, too.”

“Ho, ho, ho. See you, Sunshine.”

He ends the call and all I can do is stare through the darkness until my vision gets blurred by tears and the phone
begins to demand it be hung up by broadcasting an annoying sound. Sometimes doing the right thing feels so
fucking wrong.

Chapter 7: Brian’s POV

The conversation with Justin, coupled with the internal revelations about Lindsay, left me feeling ragged. I can fool
other people about how I feel, but there’s no fooling the man. I let the hotel valet park my car. I don’t want to deal
with even a minor hassle. The hotel is predictably nice, gracious, and while I tell them I need no help with my
luggage, a bellman volunteers. It’s late, it’s quiet, and again, I’m too tired and stressed to deal. As we await the
elevator, I stare at the all-white Christmas tree decorating the lobby. It’s wired with white lights and decorated with
silver ornaments and it makes me feel sad for some reason. It’s an illusion of a Christmas tree, a perfect reflection of
what should be lopsided and messy and littered with a collection of family and homemade ornaments.

This is the kind of tree I would have, if I had a tree, a perfect reflection of what doesn’t exist. And that makes me
feel saddest of all.

“In town on business?” The bellman tries to distract me. He’s young, he’s cute, he’s cruising me, but right now I’m
not sure if the cruise is to gauge my tip meter or because he wants to fuck me. I’m not sure I care.

“No,” I answer, not feeling compelled to explain further. We board the elevator and he pushes the button for my
floor. I stand at the back with my hands braced on the polished brass bar, my eyes closed. He says,

“Do I know you? You look like an actor.”

Please. Without opening my eyes, I respond, “No, you don’t know me.”

“You’re handsome enough to be an actor.”

I do not respond. Definitely, aggressively, cruising me. Slow night. He leads the way to my room and opens it with a
flourish. He proceeds to explain the mysteries of the HVAC system, the remote controls for the electronics, even the
fucking bathroom amenities. He offers to get a bucket of ice for me after pointing out the wonder that is the mini
bar. Fine. He’s getting a ten-dollar tip. That’s it. He can adjust my thermostat, bring me ice, even lick the film off
my soap, but he’s getting a ten-dollar tip. I guess that makes it a little more in Canadian currency. I throw my coat
and scarf on the bed and stand at the window, staring out at the crescent of lights before you hit the black void of
Lake Ontario. Water views may be lovely in the sunlight, but at night, they make you feel as if you’re perched on
the edge of an abyss.

Which I am.

He returns with my ice. I hand him the ten. He smiles as he takes it and causes his hand to brush mine. “Anything
else I can do for you, sir?” he says with a knowing smile. I sigh. What the fuck? I’m too tired to go out, too wired to
sleep, and he’s hot enough.

Five minutes later, he’s seated on the edge of the bed sucking my cock. I rest one hand on his shoulder, the other
behind my neck, my eyes closed and mind elsewhere. He’s maybe a six on the cock sucking scale. No blow job is
bad, unless they bite you or gag on it, but some are better than others. He rates a six, enough to get me off fairly
quickly, which he does. Afterwards, he starts to undress, but I shake my head.

“Don’t bother.”

“That was just the preliminary,” he leers at me. I zip up and walk towards the door.

“Tonight, there will be no encores. I’m tired, I’m going to bed.”

He looks disappointed as he leaves and tells me to ring the bell desk if I change my mind. I won’t. It took the edge
off so maybe now I can sleep. I close the drapes, take off my clothes, climb under the heavy down comforter and
instantly fall into that void.

Christmas Eve.

Gus and what’s-her-face, Michael’s kid, are so hyper over the holidays that they don’t notice the tension between
their mommies and me. Which is good. I don’t want to spoil their joy, none of this is their fault. I shipped my
presents to him early so I wouldn’t have to deal with excess baggage at the airport. The plan is that he will open
them today, and I’ll fly to Banff on Christmas morning so they can have their little lesbo holiday without my
testosterone poisoning their home.

I spent a lot of time, with Cynthia’s research assistance, selecting gifts online that seemed appropriate for a kid his
age and with his interests. A couple choices missed, but most were direct hits. I even bought a few things for his
sister so she wouldn’t feel left out. I have one for Lindsay in my bag, but I’m rethinking it. They give me one from
Gus. He watches expectantly as I shred the paper and then says, “It’s goggles for skiing, Daddy.”

“Gus!” Lindsay reprimands him with a laugh. “It’s supposed to be a surprise!”

The exposed box gave it away, anyway. It’s not like I don’t have state-of-the-art goggles, but these have some
sentimental value, coming from him. I try them on to his appreciative giggles. “You look like a monster, Daddy!” he
compliments me and I go into monster mode, chasing him around the room and up the stairs, then down again to his
delighted laughter and Melanie’s glare. He finally makes a lunge for his newly acquired super water canon and slays
me with it, even though it’s not currently loaded with liquids. I fall on the floor with a groan and lie very still until
he comes over to me and pries the goggle off my eyes and asks,

“You dead, Daddy?”

I spring up with a growl and grab him, laughing at his squeal of surprise. I roll him onto the rug and tickle him until
he squirms free. “Can we have a little less rough house and more inside-appropriate fun?” Lindsay cautions. I slump
onto the sofa, returning the goggles to the box as Gus climbs up on my lap.

“Mommy is no fun,” I tell him. She glares at me.

“Mommy has to live with a hyper-stimulated child. Daddy gets to go back to his fancy hotel and crash.”

“Gus will go skiing with Daddy!” Gus suggests. Not exactly the ski trip I had in mind, but I shrug.

“Why not? Could be fun.”

“Absolutely not,” Melanie says. “And how dare you say that in front of him so that now we get to be the villains
again.”

“But I want to go!” Gus puffs up to signal an impending crying session that Melanie cuts short by snatching him off
of my lap. She carries him into the kitchen, saying,

“It’s time for your dinner.”

I can hear him protest and cry a little, as Lindsay shakes her head. “Did you have to do that?”

“It was his idea.”

“He’s a child, you’re not. It’s Christmas, Brian. Do you honestly think I wouldn’t want Gus here with his family on
Christmas?”

“I’m his family too.”

“You’re a drop-in father.”

“Only because that’s the way you fucking want it!”

“As do you, Brian. You just want me to provide you with the way out.”

“Do I? Okay, Lindsay. Here it is. I’m happy to take Gus to Banff with me. Period. Pack him up and we’re gone.”

“We don’t even trust you to care for him in your home,” Melanie rejoins us after settling Gus with his food in the
kitchen. “Do you think we’d let you take him up on a fucking mountain?”

“Yeah, Melanie, that’s what I would do. I’d take him up the Black Diamond slope with me and watch him tumble
down the mountain. That’s such fun and so like me.”

“You wouldn’t know what the fuck he was doing while you were off chasing the ass of some Scandinavian ski
instructor.”

Enough. I see Gus enter the room, his face and hands bearing the traces of spaghetti sauce. His large, Bambi eyes
look from the women to me. His lower lip trembles. He looks like I did at that age. I’ve seen the pictures. I don’t
want him to have the same fucked up memories I have of childhood Christmases with the Kinneys. I hold up my
hands in surrender. This isn’t going to be settled in this manner. This is going to be much more complicated than
they think. But the one thing I won’t do is to traumatize my son. I pick up his water canon and say, “Come on,
Sonny Boy. Let’s go upstairs and test this out in the bath tub. You look like you could use a blast or two.”

He lights up at that possibility and Lindsay calls after us, “Don’t let him soak the bathroom!”

I just ignore her. I’ve run out of things to say to her that would be considered civil.

One of the sadder places to be on Christmas Eve night is a gay bar in a strange city. One of the more miserable
aspects of these places is that there are a lot of people gathered there, because their homosexuality has alienated
them from their families and the greater community. Those of us without partners, those of us without ties, shunned
by organized religion, congregate here to drink and cruise, but mainly to avoid being alone.

In Toronto, the gay part of town is clustered around Church Street. It’s bigger than I expected it to be, with the usual
rainbow identified buildings, shops, bars, clubs, and even condos, with rainbow flags displayed on terraces. It’s
bitterly cold and I go into the first bar I find, just to escape the chill. It’s more Woody’s than a fern bar or slick big
city dive, which is fine. The crowd is homogenous, white, very Canadian.

The bartender is cute. I’m not really in the mood for company, but he seems to be flirting, so I’m rethinking my
options. Anything to turn off the mind, to stop the pain for awhile. And then I feel a strong hand close on my
shoulder. “Brian Kinney. Of all the gin joints in Gayopolis, you come into mine.”

I glance over my shoulder at someone I definitely didn’t expect to see. I know I did him, but I can’t remember
exactly where and when. It seemed like a good encounter, one he obviously remembers, and then he says, “You said
you were going to call me. That was, what? Four years ago? Lose my number?” His smile is more mischievous than
accusatory.

He’s handsome, probably my age but well-preserved, well-dressed, understated. “You’re going to have to help me,”
I tell him. “I’ve slept.”

He laughs and sits on the stool beside me, motioning for refills for us both. “Let me set the scene for you,” he says.
“You have a friend in the hospital, close to death. Comatose.” I wince. Justin. The bashing. He goes on. “You
apparently were chosen to make the decision on whether to pull the plug.”

I brighten up at that. Ted, not Justin. Suddenly the tiles fall into place. The handsome intern, the empty bed next to
where Ted vegetated in a drug-induced coma, precursor of things to come for him in that arena. While I’m plowing
the doc, Ted decides to revive. Funny story. And this is the doc. No clue what his name is, although I’m sure he told
me, once. He says it again as he extends his hand to me.

“Brent Matthison. What the hell are you doing here on Christmas?”

I shake his hand and say, “Visiting my son. What are you doing here?”

“You have a son?”

“The first time you cruised me was in a hospital corridor on the night my son was born.”

“Interesting.”

“Why are you here?”

“I live here, now. I’m an orthopedic surgeon. My partner was Canadian, so it made sense for me to start my practice
here.”

“He let you out on Christmas Eve?”

“He let me out a year ago,” he said with a laugh. “And changed the locks. You?”

“Single,” I say, ignoring the internal wince.

“Of course.”

I want to defend that it hasn’t always been like this, but I don’t bother. A half hour later we’re in his waterfront
condo that is very Bauhaus, faggot style. Like I should talk. Ten minutes after that, we’re recreating the scene in the
hospital, only the mattress is Tempur Pedic and there’s no vegetating Ted beyond the curtain. Lying side by side,
afterwards, I smoke, he doesn’t, and then he says,

“What are you doing tomorrow?”

“Catching a plane to Banff.”

“Ah, skiing. More work for me.”

“Not from me. I’m an expert.”

“They’re the most likely to need my services. Take more chances.”

“Maybe you should relocate to be closer to the slopes.”

“There are plenty of amateur athletes in Toronto. Maybe I should look into a ski trip. I haven’t been in years. It
sounds inviting. Some rigorous exercise followed by hot buttered rum and fireside fucking.”

I cast him a sharp glance. “I’m not looking for a ski date.”

He smiles. “You’re not the only hot top at the lodge.”

I get up and dress, reminding myself of why “do-overs” are such a stupid idea. I tell him I can see myself out and
escape to the elevators. I’m ready to leave Toronto, now. I feel disconnected, angry. Angry at Lindsay, at my
circumstances, just angry. Alone and angry. Potent combination.

Chapter 8: Justin’s POV

“Merry Christmas, honey.”

My mother greets me with a mug of piping hot chocolate and melted marshmallow as I make my way downstairs
sometime on Christmas morning. I didn’t sleep well last night after Brian called, so I could barely drag my ass out of
bed this morning. In the old days, Molly and I would be up before dawn, jonesing in the doorway of the parents’
bedroom, demanding to go downstairs and open the spread of presents waiting for us. We were so spoiled. Now, I
just want to sleep in.

“We had to wait for you,” Molly says with a sour glare as I flop down on the sofa. The Christmas tree looks a little
lopsided to me. It fills the room with that fresh pine scent that used to send me into an asthma attack, but I’ve finally
outgrown that sensitivity. I sneeze. At least I think I outgrew it. The ornaments are a combination of school projects,

family projects, souvenirs from family trips and a few heirlooms. It’s an odd collection, but strangely soothing to
me. Memories, I guess. We used to have a lot of fun decorating it together. I suppose my father didn’t get any of the
ornaments in the divorce, nor would he care. He’s put all that behind him, now. All of us. We were just deitrus as he
starts his new life. Asshole.

There are fewer presents now that we’re both grown up, but our stockings still hang on the mantle and my mother
still fills them with small goodies. Mother, as always, is determined to put on a happy face and make the ceremony
at least reminiscent of our childhood heydays. I can smell her favorite coffee cake recipe baking in the kitchen, and
later there will be turkey.

“I’ll play Santa,” she volunteers, slipping on that dreadful fake fur Santa Claus hat that always designated the one
who distributed the gifts. She metes them out in order, making sure each of us has one to open at all times, until all
are revealed. Mine are practical. Gift certificates and cash cards, just what I need, really. But also a new parka, that I
probably don’t need, and insulated gloves and a stocking cap, a heavy sweater, wooly socks. I glance at my mother.

“Do you think I relocated to Antartica?”

“I worry about you in that artist’s garret and New York gets cold.”

I laugh, picturing myself dressed up like an Arctic explorer as I paint. Oh well, I’ll get some use out of this stuff.
New York does get cold, but no colder than Pittsburgh.

Molly’s gifts are mostly clothes, more suitable to normal weather patterns. When she goes upstairs to try something
on, my mother hands me an envelope.

“This is special,” she says with a smile. “I think you need a little break.”

I expect money, but when I open it, I find an airline ticket and a hotel voucher. “What’s this?”

“I know how you love to ski. It’s a paid trip to Banff.” Now the warm clothes make more sense. Too bad the gift
doesn’t. There’s also a voucher for renting ski equipment and for lift tickets.

“A ski trip?”

“Yes. You work all the time, you have no real break, no extra cash. A little vacation will be rejuvenating and that’s
always good for the creative process.”

I stare at her. Who is she? Where is my mother? What does she know about the ‘creative process’? This little
vacation can’t be cheap. I know this lodge, I’ve heard of it. Brian and I even talked about going there someday, one
of the things we always said we would do and never did. He never stays at any place with less than five stars. “Why
Banff?”

“Why not? It’s beautiful and they say the skiing there is wonderful.”

“Wouldn’t it have been cheaper to just send me to Vermont?”

“Justin, it’s not about being cheap. It’s about your having a wonderful time in a beautiful location.”

I sigh and shake my head. “You can’t afford this, Mom. It’s way too extravagant.”

“I had a good year. Just accept it graciously, please. And get packed. Your flight leaves in two hours.”

“Today? I’m flying out today?” There goes the turkey. This is just plain weird. I guess it’s good that I left my
passport and other important papers here. Chances are a lot better they’d be lost or stolen in New York than here.
And it was never likely that I’d be hopping a plane to Paris any time soon.

“Yes, I got a break on the price if you travelled on Christmas day.”

I shake my head. This is the goofiest, most unexpected present she’s given me, since that football when I was in fifth
grade. If it makes her happy, I can force myself to ski and luxuriate in some fancy lodge, I guess. But I’d rather have
the money. I gather my new wardrobe and trudge upstairs to pack. I’ll have to borrow a bigger suitcase. I didn’t
come prepared for puffy clothes. Brian’s gift waits on the table beside my bed. Why am I delaying opening it? I
don’t know. I want to see what’s in the box, but then again, I don’t. At the last minute, I stick it in my messenger
bag, deciding to wait.

The plane is empty. There are probably twenty passengers, total. Who the fuck travels on Christmas day? I’m able to
stretch out in a row of empty seats in coach and I sleep until we land. After I claim my bag, I wind through the
customs line, and call Lindsay while I wait to be admitted. I wish her Merry Christmas and ask, “Is Brian there?”

“No, Justin. He left today.”

Oh swell, this is perfect. He’s on his way back to Pittsburgh just as I leave town. We’re like the stars of one of those
schmaltzy movies where the lovers keep passing each other, unseen, in train stations. “He flew back?”

“He went to Banff to ski.”

I almost drop my phone. I have to juggle it to keep from watching it bounce on the cold, linoleum floor. Could
Jennifer Taylor really be that devious? “Banff?” I repeat.

“Yeah,” she sounds surprised by my surprise. “He said he was going to ski for a few days.”

“Do you know where he’s staying?”

“No, I really don’t.”

I make inane chit-chat for as long as I feel is necessary to be polite, remembering what Brian said to me last night
about Lindsay, and then I clear through customs, dragging my overstuffed bag behind me. A van with my name in
the window is waiting outside at the curb and the driver takes over for me, loading my luggage, after offering me a
bottle of water. The cold is intense but it wakes me up, at least.

“Make yourself comfortable,” he tells me. “The heat is on in the van. We just have one more passenger to pick up
and then we’ll be on our way. He’s due any minute,” my name comes out of the window and he shifts some paper to
find the other passenger’s placard.

“His name’s not Kinney, is it?” I wonder just how well this little shanghai was planned.

“No,” he says with a smile. Just as I begin to relax, he adds,

“Mr. Kinney arrived early this morning.”

Shit. Someone in Pittsburgh is going to die, and the first name on my hit list is Jennifer.

Chapter 9: Brian’s POV

I hit the slopes as soon as I arrive. I feel the need for physical exertion, hoping to work out some frustration and free-
floating anger as I careen down a mountain at breakneck speed. I start on a slightly easier slope, since I haven’t
skied in awhile, but fuck that. By my second run, I’m on the Black Diamond trail, and it’s fierce. I’m a black slash
against the white powder. My jacket, pants, boots, gloves, everything I wear is black. Even the stuff you can’t see. I
figure they can find the body easier that way when I plow into a tree, but so far so good. I can’t imagine that my
form is anything to applaud, but I make it through three runs without a single fall, and that’s amazing.

The fourth run is another story.

As soon as I exit the lift, I know I’m being stupid. I’m exhausted. I’ve allowed myself no recovery time. My knees
and thighs are screaming with tension and I feel a little shaky from the altitude. The wise words of my trick stick
with me, his taunt that expert skiers take the most chances and give him the most business. I’m too tired for this run.
Despite the cold, I’m sweating with exertion beneath my layers, and my lungs just can’t seem to take in enough
oxygen to keep up with the demand. Damned cigarettes.

Looking down the mountain at the scars left by other skiers, I notice the ruts are starting to ice. That’s bad. The
temperature has dropped and the air feels wetter as flakes begin to fall and accumulate. The snow crunches with new
resistance under my skis, rather than supporting me on whispery powder. Looking around, there are a lot fewer
skiers out here, now, as the skies have turned a threatening shade of gun-metal grey. The run looks impossibly steep,
full of moguls, drop-offs, trees and the other obstacles that make it a Black Diamond run. This is supposed to be fun,
but suddenly I feel terrified. I’m not sure about my strength and even my vision seems a little impaired. I’m a little
woozy. So what do I do? I push off. What else? Stupid, macho, fuck that I am.

At first, it goes okay. I get into the adrenaline rush. The frigid air feels good against my overheated skin, and my
challenged limbs are holding up. I soar over moguls like a pro, landing unevenly only once. As I pick up speed, I
figure I must be about halfway, so I know I can make it. I begin to relax a little, even have some fun. After this, I’m
thinking a warm sauna and a hot toddy. I might even meet a hot Todd as I bask at the spa. That rescue guy was
cruising me as I stood in the lift line earlier. Wonder when he gets off duty?

And then it happened.

A tree suddenly leapt off of its root system and took two steps left to become a previously non-existent impediment
in my path. Holy shit! I take a hard swerve but not hard enough. The outward branches of the tree hit me straight
across my chest with the force of a sledgehammer. I feel the buckles on my boots break free as I’m lifted off of my
skis. The black slats continue down the mountain without me. I’m thrown backwards, through the air, before I land
on what has to be a pile of concealed granite.

Pain explodes in multiple locations, but my immediate problem is that I-can-not-breathe! I try to breathe, but
nothing. Nothing comes in, nothing goes out. I’m absolutely without the ability to breathe. My mouth gapes open
like a guppie on a dock, I feel my hands struggle with the snow, as if to help me stand, but someone pulls a black
curtain over my eyes, and that was it.

I’m not dead. Damn it.

I have no idea where I am, once I start to wake up. My first sensation is fear, it’s a terrible feeling to lose time and
place, especially for a control freak. I open my eyes but the room spins and I quickly close them, feeling the nausea
rise in my stomach. My heart explodes into a fast rhythm of panic. As the adrenaline awakens my sleeping limbs,
the pain comes rolling in.

“What the fuck?” I say aloud, noticing there’s a heavy weight on my chest, making it difficult to breathe, to move.

“Relax, son,” a man’s soothing, elderly voice and a cool hand on my arm. I reach out and grab that hand as if he can
pull me out of this vortex of pain and confusion. He pries my fingers off of his wrist with a chuckle. “I need that
hand to work, loosen up.”

I let him go and let my hand fall to my chest to discover what is pressing me to the bed. All I feel are bandages
wrapped over my skin, covered with a flimsy gown. I notice my left arm doesn’t want to move at all. Even a slight
upward movement is excruciating. I try opening my eyes again and the spinning slows to a slight wobble. I still feel
sick, but won’t give in to it. My chest hurts so much it causes beads of sweat to break out on my upper lip. I focus on
the man, a small, silver haired Santa type, sans beard, wearing a white lab coat accessorized with a stethoscope. He
stands over me as he asks,

“Can you tell me your name? Do you know where you are?”

“Brian Kinney. Is this the Canadian version of hell? Because it hurts enough to be.”

He chuckles and shines a light in one of my eyes and then the other. “Mr. Kinney, do you recall having a fall on the
mountain?”

I glance down my body. I see no sign of plaster and I can feel my legs, so that’s good. I wish I couldn’t feel anything
above the waist, however, because the pain is excruciating. “I remember a tree jumped out in my path.”

“Yes, our trees are very naughty that way. Some strong branches caught you right across here,” he motions to a
diagonal across my chest. “Knocked you plum out of your skis and you landed hard on a mogul.”

And by ‘mogul’ I know he doesn’t mean an oriental potentate. Rather a stack of granite, if I recall the pain correctly.
He goes on. “It could have been worse. You fell on your back so you didn’t tumble down the mountain. Most
serious fractures occur in that tumble.”

“Lucky me. Why am I in such pain? I can’t breathe. Did I puncture a lung?”

“No, your lungs are fine. You have a mild concussion. You strained the rotator cuff of your left arm. You broke four
ribs and bruised your coccyx.”

“My what-x?”

“Your tailbone. You twisted your right knee but I don’t see any signs of serious injury there. But it will be tender for
a while. In short, your ski adventure is over for this trip, Mr. Kinney. The bad news is, there’s not much you can do
with broken ribs except tape them up and let them heal. The pain is fairly intense because you use the core of your
body for almost all movement. The good news is, you’re very fit. Your core muscles are quite strong, and that will
help support the ribs for healing.”

I have to smile. Merry fucking Christmas. I get it, God. I’ve been bad. Punish me. Good News Doctor Santa
continues.

“Because you bruised your tail bone, it might be difficult to find a comfortable position for a few days. Sitting will
hurt, but lying flat will put a lot of ache on your ribs. I suggest a recliner. You might find that more comfortable than
a bed.”

“How about some serious painkillers?”

“Not with that head injury, not for twenty-four hours. I’m going to give you Advil, three capsules every four hours.
For these kind of injuries, Advil works as well as anything I can prescribe.”

“Advil? Can you hook me up with a heroin dealer? I take Advil for headache. This is way beyond Advil pain.”

He thinks I’m a riot, laughing again at my predicament. “You’re a tough guy, you’ll soldier on. The hotel said you
listed no emergency contact. Who shall we call?”

“Call?”

“Yes, Mr. Kinney. The first twenty-four hours will require someone to watch you and monitor your concussion.
You’ll also find that these injuries are quite debilitating. You’ll need help with even small things, like dressing. Who
would you like me to call?”

I think of my last trick, that fucking doctor. He jinxed me with his fucking prediction! He fucking jinxed me. The
bastard. “No one.”

“You don’t understand, Mr. Kinney. I can’t let you go without someone to take care of you.”

“You don’t understand, doc,” I level a glare at him. “No one cares. Got it? I can take care of myself. Always have,
always will.”

“Then we’ll have to keep you here for twenty-four hours.”

“No,” I hate it when the world conspires against me. I try to sit up, but the effort is excruciating. The one thing I hate
more than hospitals is being a drain on someone. My independence is more important to me than the comfort of

being cared for. What a strange revelation that is. Who thinks that way? Who is that terrified of being needy? I am.
I’ve broken out in a sweat from the pain and exertion, and my stomach rolls again.

“Let us call someone, Mr. Kinney,” he prompts me in a kindly voice. He just doesn’t get it. No one cares. Not my
mother, my sister, not Michael, who would come, but would be a martyr and would spend the whole time reminding
me of how stupid I am, not Lindsay, that relationship is broken, not Ted, who would come, but make me pay for it
forever, no one. No one cares. I turn my head away from him, towards the window, feeling abandoned and a little
scared, and then a familiar voice intrudes.

“You don’t need to call anyone, Doctor. I’m here. I’ll take care of him.”

I’d blame it on the drugs, but they haven’t given me any worth noting. I turn to look at the vision standing at the end
of my bed. A shock of blond hair falls across his forehead, and his powder blue sweater matches his eyes. This
unexpected angel of mercy can’t be real. I meet his stare and get so choked up on unbidden emotion that I can’t even
speak. The doctor asks,

“Who are you?”

“I’m his partner,” Justin says. Hark the fucking herald angels sing. It really must be Christmas.

Chapter 10: Justin’s POV

Getting Brian dressed was like trying to cram a giraffe into sweats. His tall lanky body was suddenly completely
inflexible, and he created expletives never heard before as I stuffed him into the clothes I brought over from the
hotel. This wasn’t exactly the way I pictured our reunion as the van drove me from the airport to my destination.
When I checked in, I decided to beard the lion in his den and immediately let Brian know we were victims of a
conniving female plot. I asked the guy behind the desk to leave a message for him and he looked curiously at me.

“Do you know Mr. Kinney?”

“Yeah, why?”

And that’s how I found out what happened. Security went to his room with me to retrieve his sweats. I guess they
wanted to make sure I didn’t steal anything else while there. I left my stuff in my room and then took a cab to the
hospital with his clothes shoved into my messenger bag. It took me awhile to find his room. No one was anxious to
help me, and when I did find it, I walked in on the kindly and patient old doctor who was being harangued by a
grumpy and hurting Brian Kinney. Few things are more formidable than a grumpy and hurting Brian Kinney.

The way Brian looked at me, I know he thought he was hallucinating. After outing him to his doctor, and
shoehorning him into his sweats, a nurse wheeled him to the front door. I had arranged for a cab and when he
resisted my helping him into it, I put a strong hand on his good shoulder before he could even try to stand.

“It’s icy out here, Brian. Slick. You’re hurt. You’re woozy. You can barely move. If you’re going to be a macho
asshole the whole time, I’m just going to leave you here in the hospital where they can drug you or restrain you or
something. I’m not here to be abused by you because you’re mad at yourself and in pain. Are we clear on the
concept?”

He glared up at me and then sighed. “Just help me into the car, Clara Barton.”

Helping him is not that easy. I can’t really put an arm around him, his mid-section is too sore. I can pull on his good
arm, but his knee is torqued, so he’s very unsteady. I plant my feet and extend my hand, saying, “You pull yourself
up, using me to steady yourself. That might be easier.”

Somehow we get him into the car and he turns as white as the snow, the pain of movement is so excruciating. I have
a fresh bottle of Advil, courtesy of the hospital, but he can’t have a dose for another hour. I feel like Shirley
MacLaine in that weepy chick flick where Julia Roberts is in such pain and her mother, Shirley, demands drugs for
her. Wait, I think I’m combining two different young-girl-dies movies. He says,

“What are you thinking?”

“Whether you’re Julia Roberts or Debra Winger.”

“Swell. You’re mental. When did you go mental?”

I smile. “Forget it. Merry Christmas, by the way.”

“You followed me here?”

“Not exactly. My mother gave me this all-expense paid ski vacation to Banff. Isn’t that a coincidence?” Our eyes
meet. He shakes his head.

“That fucking Cynthia. She is so fired.”

“Yeah. Like you can get along without her.”

“What were they thinking?”

“I don’t know, Brian. Who can understand how women think?”

He moans as he leans against the far door. “Are we almost there? My ass is killing me.”

“Now you know how I felt all those years,” I tease him, but the response I get is a glare. He doesn’t have much
padding to protect his bruised tail bone. We can’t all have the benefit of my bubble butt. At the hotel, he walks
across the lobby in a great, if unintentional, imitation of the mummy meets Frankenstein. I know I sound glib, but I
really do feel for him. It’s just that with Brian, the worst thing you can do is to appear overly sympathetic. While
they were checking him out of the hospital, I arranged with the hotel to cancel our rooms and give us a single suite
with a recliner in the sitting room area. They moved our luggage, so the suite was ready when we arrived.

I fetched a pillow from the bed and used it to soften the leather recliner before guiding him into the chair. I cover
him with an afghan from the sofa and light the electric logs in the hearth. He’s so pale. I’m really worried. I put on a
good face, though. He’s playing with the incline on the chair, trying to find the least painful position. When he
decides on something, I hand him the remote control to the television.

“If you’re settled for the moment, I thought I might take a shower. I feel grungy.”

“Justin, I’m here, I’m fine. I can call room service if I need anything. You don’t have to stay.”

I smile at him. There’s a shocker. Brian Kinney telling me he doesn’t need my help. “I’m staying,” I declare and
walk into the bathroom for that shower. Wrapped in a robe, revived, I walk out to find him asleep, the television still
off, the remote slipped from his hand to the floor. I take a chance and lean over to kiss his clammy forehead. He stirs
but doesn’t wake up. I’m supposed to make sure he isn’t sleeping too deeply for the first twenty-four hours.

I turn on the television, at low volume. Outside, the snow has turned into a blizzard. Couldn’t be on the slopes even
if I wanted to be right now. The wind screams at the windows, but we’re safe and warm and…together. How I’ve
missed being in the same room with Brian. Glancing at him now, pale and miserable, I still feel a sense of relief that
he’s here.

I’m crying through my one-hundredth watching of “White Christmas”, because the scene about “following the old
man” always gets to me, when he awakes with a groan. “Jesus X. Christ, get me something for the pain!” he
demands and I hand him a banana and three Advil with a bottle of water. He glares at the banana. “When did the
pain reducing qualities of bananas become known?”

“They said not to take Advil on an empty stomach. Here, I’ll peel it for you.”

“I’m not eating it,” he downs the green capsules and I shake my head at his stubborn determination.

“Yes, you are, Brian. Do you want the drugs to burn a hole in your gut? Think of it as a nice hard cock and open
up.”

He takes the denuded banana from me and deliberately deep throats it, reminding me of his phenomenal technique
before he bites off half of it and chews it up. I smile, satisfied, and throw away the peel. “Want to tell me what
happened?” I ask as I sit down cross-legged on the rug beside his chair. He stares down at me. He tries to shrug, but
his body doesn’t cooperate.

“I was on my fourth run and it started to snow. I guess it obscured my vision because I didn’t see the tree until it was
too late. I swerved, so at least I didn’t have a solid impact. At that speed, it would’ve killed me.”

“Harsh.”

“Stupid. Let’s just say of all the shitty Christmases in my life, this is one of the worst. First the crap with the lesbians
and now this.”

“People do care, you know.”

“Huh?”

“You said no one cares about you, when you were at the hospital. That’s not true. Besides me, any one of your
friends would come here to help you out and so would Debbie or even my mom. Lots of people care about you,
Brian. The real issue is your pride. You’d rather shrivel up and die in a dark cave than ask for help.”

“So what’s your point?”

I smile. “Point made. There’s something weird that goes on in your head that makes it so impossible for you to seek
any kind of assistance.”

“Redundant. This we know.”

“It’s all about control, Brian. And you have to give up a little control to be in a real relationship, right?”

“I’m not in the mood for this, Dr. Phil.”

“Ok, that’s fair.”

“I have to piss. This should be fun. Will you help me up? See? I asked for help.”

“Sure you want to get up? I could get you a…”

“Just help me up, piss queen. No games today.”

I laugh at his twist of my offer and together we get him on his feet with a lot of swearing and a lot of grimacing. He
insists he can make it there on his own, and it takes him a long time to make a short trip. When he comes back, he’s

sweating as if he had been running for miles. I help him back into the chair and he drains the rest of the water in the
bottle. I get him another. “I need real drugs,” he says and I shake my head as a knock interrupts us. I open it to find
an attractive man dressed in ski clothes. He stares at me and then asks,

“Is this Brian Kinney’s room? The desk clerk…”

I sigh. Trick, I suppose. Some cruise from the slopes, from the spa, from somewhere. “He can’t see anyone.”

“Who is it?”

“Brian, it’s Brent.” He walks past me and I see Brian grimace as he focuses on the man. “I heard you were injured. I
thought I’d…”

“You jinxed me.”

“How did I jinx you?”

“You predicted it and here I am. Happy? And did you follow me here?”

I watch and listen and don’t like it very much. “Brent” says, “I told you I thought a ski vacation sounded good. Mind
if I have a look at you?”

“Yes, I mind. Can you prescribe something stronger than Advil? If so, look as much as you want.”

“Excuse me?” What’s with this looking stuff? Who the hell is he?

“I’m a doctor,” he throws over his shoulder at me as he lifts up Brian’s sweatshirt and gently prods his bandaged
ribs. Brian cries out and I say,

“You’re hurting him!”

He ignores me. The man then tortures Brian’s shoulder and his knee and shakes his head. “You’re a mess.”

“Is that your medical opinion?” Brian asks with a snarl as he pulls the afghan over his legs. “So where’s my scrip?”

“You have a head injury, Brian. I can’t give you anything. Maybe tomorrow. You need to force yourself to breathe
deeply. If you let the pain of those ribs shorten your breath intake, you’re just asking for pneumonia. Especially
since you’re virtually immobile. Coughing your guts up when you have broken ribs is no fun.”

“Breathing is no fun.”

“I’ll make sure he breathes,” I interrupt this little diagnosis. I perch on the arm of Brian’s chair and rest a hand on
his forearm. Mine, I want to say. But is he?

“Who are you?” the doctor is all set to dismiss me. Asshole.

“I’m his partner.”

“I thought you said you were single?” he asks Brian, who doesn’t even blink as he says,

“We’re separated.”

I give him a cold stare and the doctor leaves after telling us his room number in case we need him. I’d rather call Dr.
Santa. At least he wasn’t after Brian’s bruised ass. “You told him you were single?”

“Don’t start.”

“Is that how you see yourself?”

“You did leave. You do live in another city. We are separated.”

I reach out and smooth his hair, feeling him tense beneath my touch. “I still love you, Brian.”

He stares down at the floor, refusing to look at me. This isn’t going the way I planned. “Do you still love me?” I
venture and he finally meets my eyes.

“Yes,” he says and then adds, “But so what? It’s like loving a ghost. You aren’t here.”

Nothing’s changed for him. He hasn’t really made any progress in figuring out what a relationship means to him.
He’s just feeling abandoned and angry, now. I fucked it up. I feel sad as I kiss the top of his head. “I’ll get the room
service menu. We’ll order some dinner. Did you fuck that guy?”

“Yes.”

“Do you plan to fuck him again?”

“No.”

“He’s hot for you.”

“That’s his problem, not mine. Look, did you really expect me to be celibate?”

“No, Brian. Not at all.”

“Good. I’m not hungry, just order what you want.”

I order a meal for me, soup and crackers for him. If time and distance isn’t the right answer, what is? I’m playing out
of my league. I don’t know how to fix anything anymore. I slump onto the sofa, flipping through the channels with
aimless misdirection. He calls out to me.

“I’m having a hard time with this, Justin. I won’t lie.”

“So am I.”

We stare across the room at each other, trapped in separate, but equal, hell.

Chapter 11: Brian’s POV

I wake up, not sure when, not sure how I even fell asleep. I hurt so much it’s hard to believe I could ever fall asleep.
Waking up hurts. I adjust the recliner, trying to redistribute my weight. Nothing really helps. The lights are off
except for the ambient glow from the television that’s broadcasting yet another showing of “It’s A Wonderful Life”.
I see a brush of blond hair on the arm of the couch and I know he’s fallen asleep there, instead of going to bed. So
much for making sure I didn’t slip into a coma.

Oh God, I am so sore.

Muscles I never knew I had are screaming. I want drugs. I need to piss, again. I’m a miserable, helpless, useless,
fucking baby. And now I feel like crying, going full circle on the baby thing. I hate feeling dependent on anyone. I
hate it when my body turns on me. First, the fucking cancer, and now this. I’m so fucking over having to deal with
health issues. I know people have it worse. I know people live with torrents of pain every day. I acknowledge that
sad truth. But I still feel a little sorry for my own plight, and that makes me mad at myself.

I lower the footrest to the floor and put my weight on my good arm and my good leg and slowly manage to stand.
Unsteady. Now what? One foot in front of the other, I make it three steps then brace myself on the back of the couch
to keep from falling. I stare down at him, watching him sleep. The sleep of the innocent, he’s oblivious to my drama.
I resent that, unreasonably. I resent everything, unreasonably.

“Could you at least help me walk to the bathroom?” I bark at him, unfairly, and he instantly hops up and says,

“You shouldn’t have stood up on your own. You can’t fall, Brian. Your head, your ribs…”

“Just help me, god damn it.”

He steadies me with his arm and I make it to the john and shut the door in his face. Why am I being such an asshole?
He’s helping me when no one else would. Why do I resent it? I sit on the edge of the tub when I’m through and try
to garner the strength to walk out. He lets himself in and places a hand on my uninjured shoulder.

“You okay?”

“No, I’m not okay. I’m in pain. I’m miserable. Will you get me some Advil?”

“Yes, come on. Want to try the bed?”

I shake my head. I know if I lie down in that bed, I could never have the leverage to get out of it again. Totally
dependent. Shit! I limp back to my chair, grabbing a pillow on the way. One goes under my ass, this one will be for
my back. “Is it cold or is it me?” I ask as he covers me up with the afghan. He leaves and comes back with the
comforter from the bed. It’s huge, but the soft warmth is soothing. He makes me eat some crackers with the Advil. I
drink water. I wait for the relief that doesn’t really come. The edge goes off the pain, maybe, but I’m never free of it.

Free of pain. Nice concept. Something I know little about.

“Please turn off that ludicrous movie,” I beg him. He does. Watching him flip the channels and land on something
on MTV, I experience a revelation. Call me a prophet, I don’t know, but it hits me with such clarity that it’s as if
someone lit the burning shrub. The pure, white knowledge that I receive is jarring to me. I want to erase it from my
brain. I want to make it go away. I want to do something to myself to make it stop.

Wait, didn’t I already do that? On my fourth run? Why do I always have to be my own victim? I look at him. Bad
alternative. Don’t do it, Brian. “Do you have to listen to that crap twenty-four hours a day?” I can’t help myself. He
calmly switches off the television and turns on a lamp.

“What’s wrong?”

“Besides being in agonizing pain?”

“Yes.”

I reach up with my good arm ( hurts to do so because of having to use some muscles in my torso) and rake my hair.
It feels grungy. I want a bath. “I don’t think I should talk right now.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m in a foul mood. I might say something I’ll later regret.”

“Maybe you’ll just tell me what you really think, for once.”

Don’t go there, Justin, I think to myself. Not tonight. It’s not fair for me to fault him for going to New York to
follow his career. Even if I don’t really understand the necessity for New York, it’s his call and his career is as
important to him as mine is to me. I won’t do it. This is my problem, not his. He didn’t do anything wrong by
leaving. He was right about how stupid the whole marriage sham was. He saved us from a fatal mistake. How do I
know this isn’t the right thing, as well? He’s a lot better at this than I am, apparently.

Or is he?

“Yak, yak, yak,” I grumble. “What’s the point?”

“Some might call it communication,” he gets up and comes back with that damned messenger bag of his. He pulls
out a familiar looking present. I wince.

“You haven’t opened it?”

“I was saving it. Then this happened. I’m going to open it now.”

“Don’t.”

“Why not?”

I sigh. “It was a stupid, impulsive gesture.”

“Of course it was,” he says with a smile. “You bought it.” He rips open the paper and stares at the red leather box
with the gold scroll trim. A small gold button is pushed to open it. He doesn’t push it. “Cartier?” he says with a
shocked expression. I shrug. He finally opens it and removes an eighteen-karat yellow gold band with flat screw
heads evenly spaced around the bracelet. He turns it over on his palm and tries to slip it over his hand, but it won’t
get past his knuckles. “Is it a puzzle? It’s beautiful, but…”

“There’s a note.”

He looks in the box again. Under the lid is my handwritten note that reads: “Cartier first made this bracelet before
either of us were born. It was called the “Love” bracelet because it can only be opened and slipped on when you use
a special little screwdriver. So one lover “cuffed” the other and it was supposed to be symbolic. Come see me and
I’ll give you the screwdriver to open it. Merry Christmas, Brian”.

He looks over at me, his eyes glistening. “I’m here.”

“Not really. You came here to ski, not to see me. And the screwdriver is at my loft.”

“I would’ve seen you. You’re the one who left town for Christmas.” That’s true. “I’ll bet the hotel has a screwdriver
I can borrow.”

“It’s a proprietary fit, you have to use the jeweler’s screwdriver. It’s a little piece of art on its own, hangs from a
little chain. The original concept is the giver wears the key to the cuff.”

He stares at me. He then gets up and goes over to the table where my stuff from the hospital was tossed. My torn
sweater and parka, my ski gear, an envelope with my personal effects, all are where he left them. He rips open the
envelope and sorts through my watch and lift pass and small zippered nylon thing that holds some cash and my
room key and ID. A slim gold chain with a small eighteen gold cylinder hanging from it glistens. It looks like art,
but the top of the cylinder reverses to reveal a ridge that acts as a screwdriver. He shakes his head. He knows me too
well. He knew I’d be wearing it, and he’s right. Damned bloody scarf. That was the giveaway, I guess.

“Now you’re lying to me?”

I shrug. I guess I am. The necklace has become a talisman for me, a connection. Something ephemeral. He brings it
over to me, along with the bracelet. “Open it.”

It’s hard to do when one of my arms is so tender, but I manage to unhinge the screw that closes the latch. The
bracelet expands to fit over his hand. Once it’s in place, I tighten the latch and he puts the screwdriver back in closed
position and slips the chain over my head. It looks stupid against my bandages. He holds up his right hand, admiring
the classic look of the band. “I hope it’s paint proof.”

“It’s gold. Gold is tough.”

“It’s way too expensive, Brian.”

“You can pawn it if you need the money one day.”

“Yeah,” he sits cross-legged at my feet, using the overflow of the comforter as cushion. He looks about fifteen with
his hair a mess, his sweat pants and t-shirt rumpled, and white socks on his feet. He looks fucking beautiful,
breathtaking. “That’s exactly what I’d do. So far I’m managing to keep the wolf away from my door.”

“You’re never going to be my equal,” I tell him. “And I’ll never be yours. So what the fuck are you trying to prove?
If you’re trying to prove something about your art, your talent, okay. I understand that, I guess. But if you’re trying
to prove you can be my equal, forget it. We’re two different people. I’m older than you, more experienced in a lot of
ways, a better businessman, better with money, better at the ad game, more capable of dealing with sharks on both
sides of the conference room table, and I always will be. You’re a better artist, more attuned to the emotional side of
life, able to capture that emotion and vision on canvas, more intuitive, better with people, and you always will be.
Why are we supposed to be ‘equal’? What does that mean, anyway?”

He stares at me. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you say anything so straight-on about our relationship, Brian.”

“Are you making fun of me?”

“I’m serious. I’m impressed.”

“Am I wrong?”

“No. But it’s not that I’m trying to be your equal in the boardroom, or in any of the theater where you operate. Or
that I’m trying to match your bankroll, even. Maybe someday I will. But that’s not it. I just don’t want to be your
boy, at home, you pay all the expenses, I live off your money, paint, dabble, become…one of those guys. I can’t
respect that, and while you may think it’s okay now, sooner or later you’ll start to resent it. I know you, Brian. Any
partner you ever take on will have to have their own personal drive and ambition or you’ll ultimately lose interest
and start feeling like you’re being used.”

I’m listening. He’s not wrong. “You do have drive and ambition.”

“Yes, I do. But it needs to go somewhere. It’s not just a desire to paint. It’s a desire to get my work out there,
noticed, sold. I know some artists, great artists, didn’t sell their work, and didn’t care if their work sold. Others, not
so great, seem to paint only to sell their work, they’ve become a business. I think I’ve got a foot in both camps. I’m
not motivated to paint by whether I think my work will be commercial, but I do want to sell. Someday I want to
walk into Cartier’s and buy you a matching bracelet with my own money.”

“Don’t you see how unimportant that is to me? If I wanted a bracelet, I could buy it myself.”

“And don’t you see why it is so important to me to be able to buy it for you?”

We stare each other down and then I sigh. In a way, I do see. My dependency issues are not unique to me. Just as I
hate being dependent on him right now because I’m hurt, he hates being dependent on me for everything financial.
That’s not unreasonable, and he’s right. If he were willing to settle for that indefinitely, I probably would tire of it.
“Why can’t you let me be the breadwinner until you do start selling?”

“Because I need to be a little hungry to be motivated to get my work out there. I’m a perfectionist about my art. It’s
never good enough. I need to be able to say, stop. It’s finished. Put it in a gallery and see if someone bites. So long
as I’m completely supported by you, I can tweak a painting forever. I think once I get some pieces sold for real
money, I’ll learn more about when a work is ready to pitch. I think I’ve already learned something about that.
You’re not an artist, Brian, so it’s hard for you to understand. I suspect it’s like an author writing a book. Sooner or
later he has to say, this is it. It’s ready, otherwise it dies in eternal editing. No one ever reads it.”

Smart and beautiful, he makes it so damned hard to shoot holes through his theories. I like that. But then there’s that
damned revelation of mine. What about that? It won’t go away. I can’t ignore it. It explains so much to me. My
anger, simmering beneath the surface, my dissatisfaction with everything, even tricking, my self-destruction, all
become understandable in context. The core of my life is not what it used to be. For the first time since I’ve been old
enough to understand what I want from life, I’m not living the way I want to live. And that is alien to me. I take a

deep breath, it hurts, my fucking ribs remind me, but I do it anyway. It’s now or never. I have to tell him about the
burning shrub, or there’s never going to be any hope for us. And that’s not okay.

“I’m no longer happy living alone,” I throw it out there. “I don’t know what that means for us, but I don’t want to
live this way anymore.”

The silence expands. The crickets in my head chirp. Time is suspended. Neither one of us knows what to say next.

Chapter 12: Justin’s POV

My blood has turned to ice. My stomach is twisted into a Gordian knot. Sex is out of the picture, because he’s so
beat up, so I turn to another disassociation I learned from Brian: sarcasm.

“I don’t suppose that means you want a kitten?” I ask. What an ass I can be.

He doesn’t crack a smile. “You think this is funny? You think this is easy for me to say?”

I sigh and rub my hands across my face. Of course it isn’t funny. Of course it isn’t easy for him to say. As for me,
just hearing it is like being hit by a train. But kind of in a good way, however that’s possible. A train made out of
marshmallows, maybe. Why am I thinking of these stupid things? Because I don’t know what to say. What I want to
say will only make me want to cry. I finally get the balls to say it anyway. “Does that mean you’re looking for
another partner?”

He grimaces. “Can you see me out there like Theodore going to Jewish singles parties to find myself a nice doctor?”

“You had a nice doctor who came to see you here tonight. I don’t know if he’s Jewish or not, but…”

“Stop. He was a trick. Period. I’m not interested in him. I’m not looking for another partner. I’m just telling you how
I feel.”

There’s an element of relief to what he says. I suddenly feel like we’re a step closer to where we need to be, but still
far from the finish line. “I guess I really want to hear you say that you don’t want to live alone anymore, and the
person you want to live with you is me.”

“You know it is. Why do I have to say that?”

“Because I need to hear it, Brian. You told me you loved me for the first time when we were standing in a scene of
utter chaos and devastation. You asked me to marry you when you were still in a slow boil over the fact that some
crazy element of the straight community was willing to kill our kind rather than let us rally in favor of gay marriage.
When you said that you loved me, I believed you. I felt like you were finally voicing what I had always known.
When you asked me to marry you, I knew your motivation was fucked up. And even though I thought marriage was
what I wanted at the time, I now know that it wasn’t. I don’t need that mansion in the country, that ceremony, that
piece of paper. We’re here tonight with no bombs going off, no rage underlying your motivations, just the two of us.
I need you to tell me exactly what you want from me, as if we lived in a perfect world.”

He winces, from the pain, or from the emotional burden, or both, and leans back with a moan. “I want you here with
me. I want to know that when the lights go off, you’re sharing that bed with me. I don’t need to know where you are
every minute, Justin, and I don’t want you dogging my every move, either. I want us to be together because we want
to be together, not because of some convention that says we have to be together. I don’t expect you to be the little
woman, preparing a hot meal for me every night. I don’t even want that. I want you to paint. I want you to sell. I
want you to be the next Jackson Pollock, and I accept that it takes a lot of freedom and free time to create the way
you do. Artists don’t work a nine to five schedule. I want to be free to go out with my friends when I want to,
without recrimination, whether you join us or not. I may trick, occasionally. You may trick, occasionally. We may
trick together. I don’t care about that so long as it’s meaningless, and who knows? Maybe we’ll mutually decide
we’re past that part of it. I don’t know. I don’t see a reason to draw bright lines around our relationship right now. I
think we let it evolve. But for that to happen, we need to have a relationship to begin with. We need to be together.
I’m so tired of being lonely.”

I rest my hand on his uninjured knee and massage it gently. “I’m lonely too, Brian. Sometimes I think I’m losing my
mind, I miss you so much. I guess the angst gets poured into my work, which is better than ever, but no matter how
many people are around, if you’re not one of them, it’s not the same.”

“I know. So here we are. You have good and rational reasons for needing some distance. I have good and rational
reasons for needing us to be together. Neither one of us wants the other to sacrifice his goals. So we’ve created a
perfect picture of desolation.”

I smile and twist the beautiful bracelet on my wrist. “Your brooding Irish side always looks for the rainbow, doesn’t
it?”

“Is there a rainbow?”

“For me, hearing you say you’re lonely and you want me with you is huge, Brian.”

“I’m happy to stroke your puny ego,” his sarcasm flares to life. “But the fact is, I don’t want you to stop doing what
you feel you need to do just to put a band aid on my bleeding heart.”

“I know.”

“You’re the one with the perfect SAT scores. You tell me what the answer is.”

“Like you would ever listen to me.”

“I listen to you more than you’ll ever believe.”

I smile at that. I know he does. He hears me, he appears to blow me off, but he broods over what I say and makes his
own decision, after taking it into account. I love that about him. “I don’t have a fast solution, Brian. I just have a
request.”

“What’s that?”

“While we work on this dilemma, please don’t try to find some guy with a lot less issues than I have to fill that
empty place in your loft.”

For the first time since coming here, I see that Kinney smile, the real thing, not something tense and forced. “Damn
it, get me my phone so I can call off the auditions.”

“Not funny.”

“Yes, it is. Justin, from that very first night when I took your cherry, I knew this was different. I even wished you
were older, that you’d already lived a lot of life so that we’d be closer to the same place. I didn’t let myself explore
how much I cared for you, because I knew it was hopeless. You were a kid. You had to live before you decided to
settle on anyone or anything. Cutting you off from those experiences, even if I could, would be wrong. So I let my
walls stand, and reinforced them when they began to leak. But you still got through.”

I smile. “I told you I was in love with you from the moment I saw you.”

“That was lust. That was crush.”

“Maybe, but at some point, invisible to me, it became love. I love all the truly terrible things about you, Brian. I love
your gruff, sophisticated boredom with all things romantic while underneath you are the most ridiculously romantic
man in the world. I love your sex machine persona, even when you direct it at some other guy. I love seeing how
other men react to you, and that fierce freedom in your style. I love knowing that even when you’re fucking them,
you still love me. Only me. I love your toughness, how you act like testicular cancer is a vacation in Ibiza, how you
finish that bike race in agony, how you let Gus move to Canada with his mommies, even though it broke your heart.
But I also love how underneath that iron man exterior is vulnerability so raw it takes my breath away. I love how
you protected me from my father’s hatred. I love how you came to the hospital every night when I was bashed. I
love how you tried to recreate that dance for me. I love how you wore that bloody scarf next to your heart. I love
your completely fucked up self-esteem issues and your ambition and your absolute decency. I love Brian Kinney.
Not some domestic clone of Brian Kinney. I never want to change you. If you change as the result of experience or
age or whatever, fine, I’ll love that version of you, too. But don’t do it for me. Don’t force it because you don’t want
to lose me.”

I see that I moved him. His eyes glisten. Unconditional love is not something Brian Kinney has known in his life.
Far from it. I haven’t given it to him, either, before now. But isn’t that really one of the biggest issues we have? We
conditioned our love for each other. And we’re two people who require freedom in order to be together. He wiggles
a finger, urging me to come closer. I stand and hover over him, not sure what to do, where to touch him. He puts his
good arm behind me, urging me down. I kiss him, gently, on the lips. He parts his lips and lets his tongue find mine.
We taste, we probe, and we connect. I see the color rise in his pale, pale skin. He has such a quick trigger; even now,
in his present condition. I love his passion. He leans back with a sigh.

“This is torture. I hurt way too much to let this get started.”

I smile and smooth his hair. “I know.”

“I love your courage, Justin. The way you came back after that bashing, the way you stood up to your father, the
way you call me on my shit,” he says with a smile. “I love your talent, your artistic eye, your creative mind, your

perfect ass. I love the way you cried when I told you I didn’t believe in love, only in fucking, and yet you still
wouldn’t give up. I love the way you had the balls to come after me following your fiasco with the fiddler, and how
you wouldn’t let me walk away. I love how you can care for me without smothering me, without making me
dependent. I love the way you play me, sometimes, reminding me of what matters, of who matters. I love that you
saw beneath the Kinney façade and still wanted what you found there, quivering and cold,” he reaches out and
touches my face. “We let other people, other circumstances come between us, Justin. The way others perceived us,
and what we should need from life, had a terrible impact on our relationship. We operate best in a vacuum of our
own creation. It’s not a relationship others necessarily understand or admire or want to emulate, but who gives a
shit? If it works for us, why do we let other people and their conventions, chip away at what we know is right? They
tell you that you deserve more, better, and maybe they’re right. They tell me I need to commit to you, be a steady
partner, and yet in the same breath they tell me I need to let you go, so you can follow your dream, and maybe
they’re right. But they’re also inconsistent. They say what they want to say when they want to say it, and let’s be
real. Most of what they say is fucking hurtful. You let Michael convince you that you really wanted domestic bliss.
You let Lindsay convince you that you really needed to move to New York. I let Michael convince me that I really
want to be a party stud until I die, and I let Lindsay convince me that I was causing you to make a terrible sacrifice
in order to be with me. Fuck Michael. Fuck Lindsay. What we need to decide is what Brian and Justin need and
want. We have to shut off the outside world, because that’s the only way we really seem to work.”

As I listen to him, take in what he’s saying, I realize that what we just did, spontaneously, is to exchange the only
kind of vows that really matter. We just told each other what we love about the other and why we want to be
together, on our own terms. I know we can’t shut off the outside world and live in a vacuum of our own creation, but
I also know exactly what he means by that. I have no idea how to make this work, but I have never loved him more
than I do at this moment.

“I do,” I say softly. He looks perplexed.

“You do what?”

“I do take you as my lawfully wedded husband.”

He laughs. “I want some of what you’re mainlining.”

“What we just did is exchange vows, Brian.”

“We exchanged truths.”

“A vow is a declaration, a promise. No ceremony could mean more to me than what you just said.”

“We can’t have a wedding night when I’m too banged up to perform, so this doesn’t count.”

I smile. “It counts.”

“All we’ve done is tell each other how we feel. We haven’t solved a damn thing.”

“I know. But isn’t that what the rest of our lives for? Solving damn things? Together?”

“One step at a time, Pollyanna. We haven’t even talked about how we can be together, or even if we can be
together.”

“And we will. But right now, you’re going to sleep. You look so tired. Move over.”

“What are you doing? There’s no room for you on this chair.”

“I’m not that big. I promise not to hurt your sore parts. I just want to be close to you.”

“You can’t get close to me without hurting my sore parts,” he complains, but I manage to find a little cove next to
his body where I can lie on my side with one arm gently placed low on his abdomen and my head resting on his
good shoulder. I snuggle under the comforter and close my eyes as I breathe in the slightly seamy scent of athletic
exertion that was abruptly interrupted before he could shower. I don’t care. I love the way he smells.

I feel him relax in my embrace, and within minutes he’s asleep. With our luck, he’ll probably slip into a coma and
die, that’s the way some would write our resolution. But I have other plans for him, plans that don’t include his
premature death. I kiss his throat and then I, too, fall asleep, hoping I remember to wake up often enough to ensure
he’s still alive.

CHAPTER 13

I didn’t think it was possible to hurt more than I did yesterday, but it is. I do. I wake up to find I turned into the Tin
Man from the Wizard of Oz overnight. Every joint is seized up and locked, and my oil-can is nowhere in sight. My
one uninjured limb is asleep under his blond head. When I try to move, the ribs come to life and I groan. He wakes
up and struggles out of the chair with a minimum of jostling to keep from hurting me. No such luck.

“It’s worse,” I say through gritted teeth. He nods.

“Second day usually is.”

Together, we manage to get me to my feet and I limp into the bathroom. He brushes his teeth at the sink while I take
a piss. I tell him, “Will you fill up the bathtub? I’m not going another day without a bath and I think the needles of a
shower will hurt too much.”

He obliges and then starts to undress me. It’s harder than it sounds when none of your joints want to bend.
Unwrapping the elastic bandages from my ribs is like unraveling a mummy. When the last layer comes off we both
wince at the skin underneath. A long diagonal slash, looking like the rip in Rage’s costume, extends from my right
shoulder to the left side of my waist. It’s set in a large, deep purple bruise that meanders over my torso. The tape
helped the pain, because now it hurts even more to breathe.

“Holy shit, Brian. You could’ve been killed.”

“If it was a little higher, if the branch hit me in the head, I probably wouldn’t be talking to you now.”

He spreads a hand on my cheek and sighs. “Thank God it wasn’t any higher, then.”

Getting into the tub isn’t easy. Sitting down in the water is almost impossible. I’m not even going to think about
what it will be like to get up again. The hard porcelain is unforgiving against my bruised tailbone. But the warm
water feels good. While I feared the motion of the Jacuzzi jets, after an adjustment, the pulsation is comforting. He
leaves me soaking to go order breakfast, after warning me not to try to stand up without calling him. As if I could.

My eyes close. I remember last night. We had “the talk”. Once you have “the talk” everything is different, no matter
what the resolution may be. You can never go back. I laid myself open like I never believed I would or could. More
than a whispered, “I love you” or a determined proposal of marriage, this time I told him exactly how I feel. It scares
me to think of being that open with anyone, even him, but it also makes me feel relieved. I did it. I expressed my

feelings to him. For better or worse, he knows the whole ugly truth. I have needs, too. I have wants, too. And it may
make me appear weak or vulnerable, but I hope he just thinks it makes me human.

Because I am.

And I’m lonely.

And I love him.

He comes into the room. “Thirty minutes on breakfast. You okay?”

I nod. He undresses and gets in the shower. I watch him through the glass door. My cock stirs. I wonder if…but no.
Not now. No matter what sexual variation I come up with, having an orgasm involves muscles tightening, breathing
getting heavy and fast, and right now the thought of that is excruciating. I elevate my thoughts. The soap smells like
lemons and vanilla as I move the bar over my skin. He gets out of the shower, wraps in a towel and walks over to me
with a small bottle of shampoo. His hair is sticking up in wet spikes, freshly washed.

“Let me do your hair. You’ll never be able to get your hands up there.”

I give in and close my eyes, letting him scrub it in. He rinses it out with a cloth, running it over my head and back
from my face so the suds don’t burn my eyes. He is incredibly gentle and caring as he performs this little ritual. It is
intensely erotic for me. When I open my eyes, he’s smiling that Sunshine smile of his. “What?” I ask and he nods
towards my cock, which is standing at full mast. I sigh.

“I can’t help it. Mind of its own.”

“Want me to…?”

“Not sure I can take it.”

“My money’s on you.” He soaps up his hand and begins to stroke me. Yeah, I feel the muscles tense. And yeah, it
hurts, but…

“Don’t stop,” I tell him and he laughs.

“Thought so.”

When I hit my orgasm, I try to control the clenching and convulsive shudders, but the body has other ideas and once
the extreme relief and pleasure passes, the rest of me returns to the punishment. Getting out of the tub is the
nightmare I feared it would be. Despite the pain, and ludicrous aspects of it, we both end up laughing as we try
several different ways to accomplish it.

Finally I’m free of the torture chamber, and dry. I sit on the closed toilet as he rewraps my bandages. I tell him to
pull it tighter, because the pressure does help. Finally I’m mummified again. Wearing a fluffy terrycloth robe, I
return to “The Chair”. The bath was a good idea for more than one reason.

By now, breakfast has arrived. Wearing a robe that matches mine, he signs the ticket and has the table pushed over
by me so I don’t have to get up. The room service waiter gives us that look that says “I know you’re queer and you
disgust me”. I know that look very well. I hope Justin sees it too and doesn’t overtip him. Excuse me if I don’t pay
you for your contempt.

When we’re alone, he sets everything up, and I stare at the oatmeal I thought I wanted, rethinking it now. He’s
digging into pancakes and crisp bacon. “You want to trade?” he asks and I glare at him.

“You want me fat as well as helpless? No thanks.” I sprinkle some brown sugar on the tan gruel and dig in. It tastes
better than it looks. The coffee is even better and I wash down my Advil with orange juice. I guess I was hungry
after all, because once the food is in me, I do feel better. The bath, the food, the company, I’m slowly feeling human
again. I appreciate the fact he hasn’t said a word about “The Talk”. The bracelet gleams silently from his wrist.

“I want you to hit the slopes today,” I tell him. “You came here to ski.”

“Forget it, Brian. I’m not leaving you.”

“I don’t want you hovering over me all day. Just leave me with the phone and the remote and I’ll be fine. The danger
of the head injury is past, I’m not dying on you. I can get up to piss, which is all that really matters.”

“Did you ever consider the possibility that maybe I’d rather spend my time with you than on the slopes?”

I guess I really didn’t. I stare at him. “Okay, you can do both. Go ski for awhile, and then come back and spend the
rest of the day with me. How’s that for a compromise? See how compromise works?”

He laughs. “You are such a dick.”

“And you’re surprised by that how, exactly?”

He leans over to kiss me. “Okay, I’ll take a couple runs and then I’m back by lunch. How’s that for a compromise?”

“Check the snow conditions first. It was icy yesterday. But it looks like a nice powder fell overnight.”

“You envy me, right?”

“Yes, you little prick, I do. I came here to ski, too. And if you fall, you’re on your own. Two cripples do not a whole
person make.”

“There’s a handicap slur in there somewhere.”

I watch him leave the room to change into his ski clothes and I sigh. Bullet dodged. I know we’ll have to pick up
that painful conversation again, but at least for now, I’m home free. Once he’s gone, I pick up the phone and dial a
number from memory. My only regret is that it’s too late to be waking her up.

“You are so fired,” I say as she answers her home phone. She feigns innocence.

“What are you talking about, Brian?”

“Don’t even try, Cynthia. You and Mama Taylor must think you’re so clever. Well, I don’t need two fucking women
interfering in my love life. And you don’t have the right to share my private travel plans with anyone.”

“Are you through?”

“No, I’m not through. Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t fire you?” It feels good to be back in bitchy form.
She doesn’t hesitate.

“I’m the only one who truly understands the billing system.”

I ponder that. Damn it, she’s right. “I’m not kidding about your breach of my confidence.”

“You’re right, Brian. Sorry. But it was Jennifer, your partner’s mother, not some skank trying to track you down to
sleep with you.”

“If it was someone trying to fuck me, I might be more forgiving. I don’t know what you two thought would
happen.”

“I guess we hoped you two stubborn, prideful, miserable men would sit down together and talk about your lives and
your needs.”

I frown since that’s exactly what did happen. Damn it. “Well, nothing got settled. Happy?”

“Did you talk?”

“Of course we talked, what option did we have?”

“Then I’m happy. That’s a start.”

“Don’t interfere in my personal life again.”

“Point taken, Brian. And thanks for the gift certificate to the spa. A whole day of pampering is a wonderful gift.
Thanks.”

“I’d cancel it if I could.”

“You would not. Quit being ridiculous. Why aren’t you out on the slopes?”

“I…had a fall. Nothing major.”

“Break anything?”

“Some ribs.”

“Brian! You need me to do something for you?”

“Besides stay out of my personal life?”

“I get it. Let it go. Seriously, do you need some help?”

“I got all the help I need. I didn’t open your gift, by the way. It’s waiting for me in Pittsburgh.”

“No rush. Did Justin like the bracelet?”

“What’s not to like? It’s Cartier.”

“Yeah, I’m sure that’s what appealed to him about it.” She saw the bill come through on my Amex card. There’s no
hiding shit from Cynthia. “Where is he now?”

“Skiing. Duh.”

“Who’s taking care of you?”

“I’m not a fucking invalid!” Well, close enough.

“Brian, don’t waste this time with Justin. Tell him how you feel. You’re breaking my heart. You put up an excellent
front but I’ve known you long enough to recognize how unhappy you are.”

“Shut up. I am not and the rest is none of your business.”

“I care about you.”

I can’t stay mad at her. I know she does. And she believes in me. If I were straight, I’d marry her. “Are we clear on
the concepts?”

“Yes, boss.”

“Good. When are you going back in the office?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Okay.”

“Brian, good luck.”

“About what?”

“You know what.”

“I’m hanging up now. You’re tromping on my last raw nerve.”

I hear her laugh as we say goodbye. Am I really that transparent? Are other people thinking I’m some fragile little
flower underneath it all? That possibility annoys me. I hit the remote and I surf until I find a game, any game, and
settle on that. I watch and I wait. Wait for him to come home. Who am I kidding? Even now, I miss him. Time
passes slowly when you’re alone. I hope he’s having great runs, but I also hope he comes back soon. Such is the
strange dichotomy of love.

CHAPTER 14

Whatever I do, I can’t limp. If I limp, he’ll know. If he knows, he’ll get all torqued. So he can’t know. He has
enough to deal with right now. So I can’t limp. Why the fuck would I pick now to try snowboarding for the first
time? I’m a decent skier, maybe not black diamond ready, but close enough. But do I stick with that? No. I have to
try snowboarding because it looks like so much fun. And it was. For about five minutes until I hit air and the board
and I parted company. I landed funny on my left ankle. It’s not broken or anything, I know that would make it
impossible for me to move it, but it hurts. I sit down on a bench at the chalet, waiting for the shuttle back to the
hotel, and loosen my boot so I can get a look at it.

Maybe a little swollen, but nothing major, I decide. I try to rotate it and it will do as told, but it hurts. “Are you
okay?”

I look up at Dr. Trick. He appears very pro in his tres chic ski gear. I don’t really want to admit vulnerability to him,
but he is a doctor and maybe he can just tell me that I’m fine. “I think I twisted my ankle.” Why does that sound like
something a female ingénue would say in a 1930’s romantic comedy? He sits beside me and pats his thigh.

“Put it up here.”

I oblige and he gently removes my boot and my sock. The cold air bites right into my naked toes. Ouch. He takes off
his gloves and pokes around and prods and rotates and pokes some more. Is he really looking for an injury or just
torturing me for being Brian’s partner? He then puts my sock back on my foot and I manage to stuff the injured limb
into my boot once again. “Well?”

“I’d prefer to see film of it to be sure, but it feels like a sprain. Keep it iced and elevated, take Advil, and don’t
constrict it. It will probably swell and discolor, and you may want to wrap it loosely later to protect the joint. Stay
off of it as much as you can for twenty-four hours. If it gets worse or throbs or feels hot, go to emergency and get an
xray. I think it’ll be fine.”

I can’t do all that without tipping Brian. Oh well, maybe Brian will just have to deal. What was that he said about
two gimps do not a whole make? Something that rude.

“You and your boyfriend are making your own little hospital ward out of that hotel room,” he teases me. I shrug.

“This trip wasn’t about skiing anyway.” He can take that any way he wants. He gives me a smile that I don’t
particularly like.

“Reconciliation?”

“What do you mean?”

“Brian said you were ‘separated’.”

“Not exactly separated. Not how you mean.”

“How many ways are there to be separated?”

“A lot.” I’m liking him less by the minute.

“Being involved with Brian Kinney has to be a thankless job.”

“Someone has to do it, and that would be me,” my look for him adds the words, “not you”. We share the shuttle
back. He sits beside me, uninvited.

“Funny thing,” he says, and why do I think I’m not going to laugh? “I’ll bet I’ve known Brian longer than you.”

“Doubt it. Unless you went to school with him or something.”

“No, but years ago, we first fucked in the empty bed of a room at the hospital while his friend was in a coma in the
bed next to ours,” he chuckles at the memory. “The fact that his friend was near death a few feet away certainly
didn’t take the edge off for Brian.”

I suddenly feel buried in an avalanche of snow. Brian fucked this guy in my room while I was in a coma? One thing
I love about Brian is the image of him lingering around my room while I was vegged out, just hanging with me,
watching over me. It doesn’t matter that he wasn’t celibate while I was hospitalized. Why would he be? But getting
it on in the bed next to mine while I was in such terrible shape? That hurts. I don’t remember there being a second
bed in that room, but maybe they moved me later, when I woke up. So much of that time is lost to me. I don’t want
to give away any of my pain to Dr. Trick, so I say nothing, and stare out the window, willing him to leave me the
fuck alone.

When I make it to our suite, he mutes some game he’s been watching and smiles at me. He could use a shave. I’m
not in the mood to help him with that. I might just cut his throat.

“How was it?” he asks. “Let me live vicariously.”

“Good, until I fell and twisted my ankle.” So much for being a martyr. I sit on the sofa and remove my boots and
socks. I wrap some ice in a towel and press it to my ankle as he stares at me.

“Do you need to see a doctor?”

“I did. Your doctor.”

“Doctor Santa?”

“Doctor Trick.”

“Where did you see him?” He asks with a wince as I glare at him.

“We shared the shuttle. He looked at it and said it was a sprain. No big deal. But it hurts.”

“I’m sorry. Maybe we need to look for sunny beaches instead of snow.”

“Brian, he told me you tricked him in the bed next to mine when I was in a coma.”

“Why would he tell you that?” His tension is apparent from across the room. I seize the moment.

“Because he’s making a point about how long he’s known you. But that’s not the issue. The issue is, you fucked him
in the same room with me when I was in a coma?”

“No.”

“No?”

“No, Justin.”

“Why would he make it up? How else would he even know that I was in a coma?”

“Are you calling me a liar?”

“One of you is lying.”

“And you think it’s me?”

I can feel his Irish rising all the way over here. I begin to doubt Dr. Trick. Brian isn’t a liar. He’d tell me if he did it.
“Why would he say that?”

“It was Teddy.”

I shake my head, completely confused. “Huh?”

“Teddy was in a coma in the next bed. In fact, he woke up while we were in the middle of it. You can call him to
verify, since you obviously don’t believe me.”

Oh shit. Ted had that overdose right when I first met him. Dr. Trick was right. He has known Brian as long as I
have. And he never said I was the one in the next bed. I just presumed. “Fuck,” I say softly and Brian glares at me.

“You really think I’d fuck someone in your room while you were hovering between life and death? Is that what you
think of me?”

Damage control. “No, Brian.” The bloody scarf, the devastation everyone said he felt, the guilt he carried after what
happened, the re-creation of the dance that day in the loft with Daphne helping, the gentle caution he showed while
bringing me back to life, how could I doubt him? I limp over to him and scrunch my ass into the chair with him. I
can feel him stiffen, and not in a good way. “I’m sorry.”

He shakes his head. “I thought you had a higher opinion of me than that.”

“I said I’m sorry. I do have a high opinion of you, but put yourself in my place. Coma, hospital, why would I not
think of myself? It was a major event in my life, you know? And he so wanted to minimize our relationship. And
why did you do him again? You don’t do that.”

“Don’t try to shift this over to me.”

“I’m not. It’s a serious question.”

He ponders that for a moment and then says, “I was lonely. It was Christmas Eve. I had a bad scene with Lindsay. I
went into a gay bar in Toronto and he remembered me. I didn’t remember him until he told me. It was just easy,
Justin. There was no pursuit involved. Not on my side, anyway. Did he follow me here? I think so. He’s predatory.
But even if you weren’t here, it wouldn’t have done him any good. I would’ve told him to pound sand.”

“Would you?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I don’t need complications in my life. You’re complicated enough. Now get your fat ass up and put ice on your
ankle.”

“Fat? You are so going to pay for that!”

I retrieve the ice and the room service menu and snuggle up with him again. “I’m hungry.”

“There’s a news flash.”

“Hey, I’ve been exerting myself physically while you vegetated in this chair.”

“I think my flesh is growing into the leather.”

“There goes my appetite.”

He laughs. We’re back on familiar ground. I place an order for us and then he says, “When do you leave?”

“Trying to get rid of me?”

“I have to go back to work, there’s money to be made. I’m scheduled to leave tomorrow.”

“Me too. Will you be up for a flight?”

“Sure. Are you going back to Pittsburgh or to New York?”

“Pittsburgh.”

“For how long?”

I stare into those guarded hazel eyes of his and say, “I don’t know. I think we need to talk about that.”

He nods, but I can see the glimmer of hope twinkle in his expression as he pulls me in a little closer and punches the
sound up on his game. I have no idea what we’ll decide about what time I spend in Pittsburgh. We each have
legitimate concerns that haven’t really been addressed, but I share his optimism for now, content to let it unwind at
its own natural pace.

Chapter 15

Brian's POV

It would be funny if it wasn’t so pathetic, the two of us limping through the airport to get to our gate. He offers to
fetch me a wheelchair, an idea that I kill with a shriveling glare. It’s not that I don’t want a wheelchair, I’d love a
wheelchair, but my ego won’t allow it. I don’t want to appear that fallible. I haven’t been with Justin for this amount
of time without fucking him since…well, never.

I hate it.

I really want to fuck him, but damn, we both hurt. It’s like a cosmic cruelty joke. I upgrade him to sit next to me in
first class, and for once he doesn’t resist. I think he knows it will be an easier flight up front when he hurts the way
he does. We get the bulkhead so we can both elevate our aching limbs by propping them up on the wall. I take the
aisle. My legs are longer and if I have to get up, it will be easier from here.

By the time we’re underway, I’m exhausted. Just the hassle of checking in, going through security and boarding
took all my gas. I order water instead of booze, feeling a little shaky. He orders a beer. He’s less shaky, less injured.

“Did you boys have a great ski trip?” The faggot steward leers at us, managing to make fun of our obvious injuries
by asking. I glare at him.

“It was a non-stop fun fest. Why do you ask?”

He moves on, unsure of what to say to that. Justin snorts. “You are such a bitch.”

“I can be.” Thank God we’re not delayed. Once we’re in the air, the ride is smooth and I start to relax as I adjust the
seat to accommodate my tailbone.

“He probably thinks your ass is sore from my macho ramming,” he continues to trigger my nerves. I glare at his
smiling face.

“Your ramming my ass would hardly cause a grimace, short stuff.”

“Not short where it counts.”

I get to laugh now and it hurts my ribs to do so. “I have only a vague recollection of that boast.”

He reaches over and puts my hand squarely on his crotch. “Bring back a memory?”

I give him a squeeze and then withdraw before the straight middle aged couple across from us fall into a righteous
rage. “Oh yeah, now I remember. Not bad.”

“We can’t all be Mr. Nine Inch Nail.”

“It’s a burden, but I shoulder it well.”

“At least one of my balls isn’t made out of jelly.”

From anyone else, that would be cruel. From Justin, it’s funny and I laugh. “That’s no problem for me. Since the
other one is jumbo sized, it more than picks up the slack.”

“Is this turning you on? Because it is me,” he says with a leer.

I smile at him as my water is delivered. “Everything turns you on. It’s your age.”

“It’s the fact I haven’t been laid in awhile. I didn’t spend Christmas Eve with Dr. Trick.”

I wince. “You didn’t miss much. So you just have a vague, free-floating horniness, nothing to do with me?”

“Maybe a little to do with you and the discussion of your nine inch nail.”

“Moving on, since it’s never easy to get off in the head of a jet, and when you’re as crippled as I am, it’s an
impossibility. Maybe when we land and the loft awaits. You are staying with me, right?”

“No, I thought I’d stay with my mother. Christ, Brian, of course I’m staying with you. Sheesh.”

“Just checking.” If he didn’t want to stay with me, I’d know it was hopeless. “So what did you get me for
Christmas? Nothing?”

“It’s at your loft. I asked management to put it inside your door.”

“What is it?”

“A gift.”

“Justin…”

“It’s not from Cartier’s.”

“I don’t need anything from Cartier’s.”

“Just wait and see.”

I lean over him to watch Canada disappear beneath the clouds. I think of Gus. I feel sad. I already miss him and my
encounter with his mommies was particularly brutal. “I want my kid,” I say to him. He looks at me and then pats my
arm.

“I know. What can we do?”

“I’m not sure.”

“That’s why they have lawyers.”

“Right. But do I want to put him through a custody battle?”

“Yes. You do. Because he has a right to know his father. You’re a good man, Brian. You love him. That means a lot
to a boy. It’s not as if you’d try to cut them off and become the parent he lives with. You just want to enforce your
rights to visit him and have him visit you on a regular schedule. As much money as you pay towards his support, it’s
only fair.”

“Right.” I know he’s right, but the thought of going through the battle makes my head hurt. I can hear them now.
What a rogue I am, how promiscuous I am, how careless and unreliable. What about them? Lindsay’s affair with
that idiotic painter, Mel’s cheating on her and their on again off again relationship, their unreliable income record
and finally fleeing to Canada. I don’t know. The knife seems to cut both ways. No one is perfect. Do we really want
to fight this out in public? Why can’t we just settle it among us like adults? “Did you notice my goggles when you
packed? Did they get in the bag? Gus gave them to me for Christmas.”

“Yeah, two pairs, and your torn parka. I packed it because I think it can be repaired and it’s obviously expensive.”

“Good.”

I let my hand cover his on the arm between us. I squeeze it gently and he smiles at me. “What?”

“Nothing. I’m just glad you’re here.”

He rests his head on my shoulder. “When I was eight, my mom gave me my all time favorite Christmas present. It
was a downsized artist’s easel and three paint-by-numbers kits. One was a collie, one was a house and trees and one
was a parrot. I loved that gift! I felt like Rembrandt when I finished that collie. It was so awful, and yet my
grandmother had it hanging up in her home forever. I never thought my mom could eclipse that gift, but she did.
This is my all time favorite Christmas present, now. I was mad at her for meddling, but now I can’t be mad. I loved
being with you, even though you were hurt and grouchy.”

I shake my head. “I wasn’t grouchy. I’m always like this.”

“You’re worse when you’re sick or hurting.”

“Really? Oh well. I’m entitled.” I reach down and rest my cheek on his soft, soft hair. I’m also grateful to Jennifer,
and even Cynthia, though neither will hear it from me. No matter how we resolve this, for a few painful, soul baring
days, I had him back in my life. All the way back in my life. And that filled the gap.

We both manage to sleep and it’s the prissy steward who wakes us up to tell us to put our seat backs up and prepare
for landing. I’ve stiffened up during the flight, not in a good way. I wince as I sit upright and Justin climbs over me
to limp to the bathroom. The man on the aisle across from me leans over and asks, “So what do you think of gay
marriage?”

“I don’t believe in ‘gay marriage’,” I tell him. He looks surprised.

“You don’t?”

“No. There’s no such thing as ‘gay marriage’. There’s only marriage. Between two partners, who love each other
and who are willing to accept the conventions of society and follow the rules. Gay, straight, who cares? Marriage is
marriage. It’s a personal thing. How do you feel about it?”

“I believe marriage is a sacred union between a man and a woman.”

I nod. “Like divorce.”

“What do you mean?”

“That’s obviously reserved only for men and women too, and since every other marriage ends in divorce, that little
nuance gets a lot of use. Not quite as sacred, I guess, but maybe the sanctity wears off of all these solemn vows you
people share.”

“We’ve been married fifteen years!”

“Congratulations. You know anyone who’s been divorced?”

“That’s not the point.”

“True. The point is, it’s sacred when you want it to be sacred, but when you decide your hot mama secretary tweaks
your interest more than the old lady at home, and you want to move in with her, forget the vows and let’s move on
to door number two. Or three. Or four. Serially sanctimonious. I like it.”

“You people are the ones who are so promiscuous, who introduced AIDS to our society!”

I laugh. “If AIDS was limited to my tribe and it’s now in your tribe, someone on your side of the fence was visiting
on the down low.”

Justin comes out of the john and looks from me to Mr. Straight America. “What’s up?” he asks nervously and I grin
at him.

“Sit down, baby. We’re discussing gay marriage.”

“Baby?” He repeats as he sits down and buckles up. “Let it go, Brian.”

I reach over to kiss him but he leans away and puts a finger on my lips. “No,” he says. “Not putting on a show for
the man.”

I sigh. He’s right. I turn away from the man across the aisle. Let him bait another queer. I’m going home. I’ve
arranged for a driver to meet me at the airport and he loads our luggage. He drives me often, and he seems pleased to
see Justin is with me. At the building on Tremont, we wait for the creaky elevator, neither of us willing to tackle the
stairs. It’s a slow ride up and he opens the door and drags our luggage in as I collapse on the chaise, still wearing my
coat. I’m happy that he still carries his key to the loft. That’s childish, I know, but I am. He brings over a rectangle
wrapped in red foil paper. No bows. I take it from him and tear off the paper to reveal bubble wrap. Under that is a
beautiful abstract painting that shows off his maturing skills.

“It’s brilliant.”

He smiles as he straddles my thighs, careful of where he puts his weight. “I thought it would look good in the
bathroom.”

“Your time in New York is paying off. This is really, really good.”

“Thanks.” He leans down to kiss me. I kiss him back. He gently takes the painting from me and carries it over to the
sofa, then returns. He helps me out of my coat and sheds his. We kiss again. We’ve had some very good times on
this chaise, with and without ice cream. He moves his ass against my crotch as we kiss and I moan. I want to fuck
him, I really do. He reads it in my eyes.

“You think we can?” He asks. He shares my need.

“Maybe with you on top and keep some of your weight on your legs. You’d have to do the work.”

“I don’t mind that.”

His hand loosens my belt, unzips my jeans, reaches in to stroke me. My hands run down his back and slip under his
sweater to feel his skin as our tongues dance. And then it happens.

Bang. Bang. Bang. Fists on the door. Voices outside. “Brian, are you home? I know you’re in there! Open up!”
Bang. Bang. Bang. I look at him and groan. He winces and rests his forehead against mine.

“Welcome back to Pittsburgh,” he whispers and I come up with a revolutionary idea.

“What if we just refuse to answer the door?”

Chapter 16

Justin's POV

His cock is in my hand and it’s hard to the touch. His face is flushed, the way it always looks when his heat is up. I
want him so much I can feel it in my core as well as everywhere else in my body. And then the knock intrudes. I see
the frustration in his eyes as he sighs, audibly. I unstraddle him and walk away. His gaze follows me and then he
laughs as I veer from the door and go into the bedroom, returning with lube and condoms.

“Fuck them,” I say as I strip off my clothes and then his. “Or maybe I should say fuck me. To hell with them.”

I’ve wanted to fuck him for so long. If they think they can stop this locomotive, they’re wrong. I don’t care if they
stand right here in the room. I’m going through with this.

And we do.

Somewhere in the middle of it, the banging on the door stops as the banging on the chaise gets hotter. Or either I just
blocked the noise. Sex, done right, is always good, but sex with Brian is like no other for me. He fits my body, he
knows what I need, and he gives it to me. Even hurt, limited in movement, it works for us. I close my eyes as I ride
him, careful to keep my weight back, off of his torso, opening my eyes when his breathing and motion tell me he’s
about to shoot. I love to watch his handsome face when he comes. The grimace of his features, as if in exquisite
pain, the high color in his complexion, the way his relief starts with a gasp and ends with a smile.

Watching him makes me come, and only then do I really think about the fact I just spunked his bandages. Normally
I would fold over him now, pressing his body to mine, but not today. Not with those ribs. I reluctantly dismount and
come back with a wet cloth to dab the traces from his mummy wrap. He laughs. “Hope they don’t run a blue light
over me.”

“Expecting the CSI crew?”

“Well, someone was hammering my door.”

“You should be so lucky that it was the CSI crew,” I toss him an afghan to cover up. “I’m going to take a shower
and then go out and get some take away and also refresh your supply of Advil and mummy wrap.”

“Can you walk?”

I shrug. “It’s a block. I’ll manage. You stay put. I’ll help you shower when I get back.”

“Justin?”

“Yeah?”

“It was…” he hesitates and I smile.

“I know. It was.”

When I’m dressed and headed for the door, I pause to kiss him goodbye, but he’s asleep. I kiss his forehead and
leave him there. My ankle is sore, yeah, I’m not running any marathons, but I can manage this pain. I still take the
elevator, and take my time walking to the drug store to be followed by the Chinese place we like. Being back in the
‘hood feels as strange as it feels good. I miss the familiarity, the sense of belonging to this community. Plenty of
fags in East Village, but not this sense of community. I’ve met artists, and we have a lot to talk about, but in a way I
get sick of them. If I’m not painting, I don’t want to sit around and talk about painting. And the act of creation isn’t
really verbal, anyway.

As I fill a small red plastic basket with Advil and bandages and hot and cold packs and cigarettes and condoms and
other necessities of life, I hear my name being called in a distinctive whine. Michael. “I heard you were in town,” he
says as he walks over to me and curiously eyes my shopping choices: Brian’s brand of cigarettes, Brian’s brand of
condoms. “I called your mom’s house and she said you went skiing.”

“Right.”

“With Brian?”

“As it turned out, yeah.”

That look I know so well. Half suspicion, half envy, all pathetic. “Interesting. I thought you two had sort of put it on
ice.”

“You never know with us,” I throw in a couple power bars, a couple Hershey bars, you decide who gets which.

“We were just over at Brian’s place, my mom and me, but he didn’t answer the door.”

“I know. We were in the middle of it. Bad timing. Next time you may want to call first.” As if that concept would
ever enter his dictionary of rude behavior.

“Are you limping?” He chooses to ignore the sexual confession, as always preferring to believe Brian and I have
never touched each other intimately. It’s easier for his fantasies that way.

“I sprained my ankle snowboarding. It’s no big deal.”

“And naturally Brian can’t be bothered to go out and let you rest.” This is another thing he does. He never misses a
chance to dis Brian behind his back. I don’t consider this appropriate BFF behavior.

“Brian also had some bad luck on the slopes, worse, in fact. Broke several ribs, wrenched his knee and shoulder, and
had a concussion. He couldn’t go out shopping if his life depended on it.”

Now he gets that winsome, puppy dog eyes look that says “I’m so worried about my poor widdle Bwian.” I just roll
my eyes and put the basket on the counter. I picked up Brian’s wallet on the way out since I have virtually no cash. I
get carded on the cigarettes. I try to show him Brian’s ID. “Six-two?” He asks and I sigh and produce my own. He

obviously thinks it’s fake, but sells them to me anyway. Damned baby face. He bags the items and Michael walks
out with me.

“Has he seen a doctor?”

“Duh, Michael. Yes.”

“And?”

“He’ll be fine, but he’s laid up for now.”

“Who will care for him when you go back to New York?” His unfinished question leaves out the “soon I hope”.
Will he ever be over his unrequited passion for Brian? Yeah, when the world stops spinning. He follows me to the
Chinese restaurant.

“I’m not going back until he’s on his feet, and after that who knows?”

“What do you mean ‘who knows’? Are you considering coming back? Listen Justin, don’t let him guilt you into
leaving New York. He’s been just fine since you left and…”

“Stop,” I tell him. “Just stop. What we decide to do about our living arrangement is between Brian and me. If I want
your opinion, I’ll ask for it. Otherwise don’t presume to tell me about Brian Kinney and what he wants and needs. I
think I’m in a better position to measure that than you will ever be.”

I’m as shocked as he is by what I just said. Did that come out of my mouth? I remember, in Banff, when Brian said
we can’t let those on the outside alter our relationship by poisoning us with their opinions. I think he’s right and I
think we were both foolish to do so before. We have enough issues without allowing third parties into the mix.

“I think I’ve known Brian a little longer than you, Justin,” he plays the BFF card. I shake my head.

“In an entirely different way and longer doesn’t mean better.”

I order our usual preferences while Michael steams. “So, how are Ben and Hunter?” I ask with a bright little smile as
if I didn’t just eviscerate him. He glares.

“Fine.”

“What did you guys do for Christmas?”

“We went to my mom’s. You can’t just keep bouncing in and out of his life, Justin. It isn’t fair.”

“What do you not understand about my not discussing my relationship with Brian with you?”

“Someone has to talk sense to you two.”

I laugh at that. “You mean you?”

“Is that funny?”

“Well, yeah.” The food comes out quickly and I hand Michael a bag as I start back to the loft. It’s inevitable that
he’s going with me, I know that. His Brian stalks won’t end until he spies the beast. I should have asked him if he
wanted me to order something for him. Whoops.

We’re silent in the elevator, and when we enter the loft, he starts to talk, but I hold a finger up to my lips and nod
towards sleeping Brian. He hasn’t moved since I left. I quietly unpack the food, filling a tray with white cardboard
boxes and fetch Brian’s favorite ebony chopsticks with the silver tips. I put a couple bottles of Evian on the tray and
carry it over to the chaise. Michael follows.

I set the tray on the floor and lean over to kiss his sleeping lips. Sleeping Beauty, for sure. He really is. He stirs and
smiles up at me. “Hello, Sunshine. Your face is cold,” his fingers spread out on my cheek.

“It’s chilly out there. Hungry?”

“Yeah, smells good. Kung Pao chicken?”

“Of course. And spring rolls and fried rice.”

I balance the tray on his lap and kneel beside the chaise so I can get to the cartons, after shedding my cold weather
gear. Only then does he notice Michael. “Haven’t I told you about letting things follow you home?” He quips and
we both laugh but Michael is into puppy dog eye mode.

“Are you okay, Brian? You look like shit!” A glance at me, as if I had beaten Brian with a broomstick. He shrugs.

“I’ve been better, been worse. You want some?” He’s a better host than I am. Michael shakes his head.

“Mom and I came by earlier but Justin said you were…busy,” another baleful look at me that I ignore. “We had your
Christmas gifts. She took them with her.”

He nods. I know Brian. He would’ve already had their gifts delivered so they could have them on the day.
“Something to look forward to.”

“I was going to use my key but Mom said you might not be alone and she didn’t want to walk in on something.”

“I always knew Debbie had a brain under that fright wig.”

“Brian, do you really think this is a good idea? You and Justin, I mean? You were just starting to…”

After exchanging a look with me, Brian points his sticks at Michael and says, “Don’t go there.”

“But…”

“Seriously. Don’t. If I need your opinion, I’ll ask for it.”

“Fine. Except I’m always the one who has to pick up the pieces he leaves behind.”

Ouch. That hurts. Brian’s expression darkens. “Eagerly.”

“What?”

“You eagerly pick up those pieces, Michael. It makes you feel important to me. It keeps me where you want me to
be. Alone.”

“How did this become about me?”

“It isn’t about you. That’s my point. Don’t you have a hubby in the ‘burbs somewhere?”

“Fine, I’ll go. But when he’s back in New York and you’re feeling blue again, don’t bother calling me.”

He makes a dramatic exit and I stare at Brian. “He really dislikes me, doesn’t he?”

“He dislikes my loving you.”

“Better that you’re lonely?”

“Yeah, better.”

We both wince. Some friend. “I guess the crazy aunt is out of the attic, Brian.”

“Huh?”

“New York. We can’t keep dancing around it.”

“Mixed metaphor.”

“Whatever.”

His eyes meet mine. “What are you about to tell me?”

I stare into his beautiful, expectant, guarded face and I have not one clue about what I’m going to say next.

CHAPTER 17

This is the longest moment of my life, watching him struggle to find the words. I can’t take it. I can’t believe I’m
putting him through this. I push him aside, gently, and struggle to my feet. I limp over to the window, just wanting
to put some space between us and prepare myself for his response. I won’t argue with him. I won’t beg. I have some
pride. And beyond that, I respect his situation. I don’t want to be unfair.

But I don’t want to be alone, either.

I feel his hand on my shoulder. I don’t move, I don’t turn. He says, “I don’t want to lose you. Lose this, what we
have. That much I know.”

Now, I turn. I stare into his baby blues. “Neither do I.”

“That’s a starting place, right?”

I nod. I guess it is. But where do we go from there? “I need to sit down,” I realize and lean on him a little as we walk
over to the sofa. I must be getting better. I can sit a little easier now. He threads his fingers through mine. “Will you
get me a cigarette?” I ask and he retrieves the pack and my lighter. He refuses one when offered. I inhale the
soothing nicotine. It doesn’t help, much. My stomach hurts all of a sudden. I recognize this as stress. How can I be
so stressed with someone I love?

“Let’s not talk about it now,” I try, pathetic of me, yes. He smiles.

“Shut up, Brian.”

“That’s my point exactly.”

“We can’t settle anything if we ignore it.”

“I know.”

“I don’t think this is the right time for me to leave New York.”

I draw my lips into a thin, tight line and use that as a cue to keep the rest of my expression dispassionate. Inside,
something breaks. I nod. Say nothing. Voice is not to be trusted. I feel his hand on my arm, but I don’t look at him.
He goes on. “Which isn’t to say I reject your need for us to be together.”

I glance at him. What the fuck? Now a little anger penetrates the pain. He can’t have this cake and devour it too.
“I’ve already done the math. Kinnetik isn’t well established enough to survive a move to the city. All the big dogs
play there. If I tried to re-launch my business in New York at this point in time, and gave up my home base here, I’d
go down in flames. And not in a…”

“Yes, I know. Not in a positive, life affirming way. I’m not asking you to relocate your business.”

“So you think I should give up my own company and get a job flogging ads for a big dog?”

“Of course not. I know how much Kinnetik means to you. And you’ve turned it into a great business.”

“Then what are you saying?”

“I’m saying we both have to bend.”

I raise a brow. “You’re the one who bends over in this relationship.”

He smiles. “Only for your dick.”

“I could arrange that.”

“Let’s not get off the topic.”

I frown at his determination. “Ok, both bending means what in your pointed little head?”

“Not pointed, not little. It means it won’t be perfect.”

“Whatever is?”

“I know. We split our time.”

“How do we do that?”

“You come to the city, I come here.”

“You have a job, I have a job. We both need jobs.”

“Brian, how often are you in New York on business?”

“Often.”

“Right. And my job is menial labor in a poster shop, and waiting tables when I can get a gig. If I make a couple
gallery sales, I’ll have the backup to be able to depend more on my art to support me. Which is my ultimate goal.
There are no hours for an artist.”

“It’s not coming together in my mind, Justin.”

“Because you’re not letting it. For three months, we’ve been in a black hole of polite conversation and neither of us
making the first move to see the other. Now we have an idea of what we both want and need. We accommodate,
Brian.”

“Go on.”

“Admittedly, until I get a couple sales, and no, don’t even think about being the one to buy my canvases and give me
the bankroll that way, I’ll know where they go, it will fall more heavily on you to travel. You come to New York on
business, or you take a couple days off, or whatever. And I meet you and we stay together. Will we be living
together? No. Not for awhile. But will we be together as a couple? Yes. And when I have more financial flexibility,
I’ll come here, too. As soon as I have my feet under me as a painter, I’ll live wherever you want to live. I can paint
anywhere. But first I have to get established.”

“I don’t know,” it’s not what I want. “It sounds like an occasional roll in the hay to me, not a relationship.”

He stares at me. “Since when is a roll in the hay not part of a relationship?”

“Active word being ‘part’.”

“Brian, work with me here. Are you asking me to move back? Is that the only thing that will work for you?”

Ouch. That’s a fair question. Yes, I want him to move back. But if he really feels he has to prove something to
himself as an artist and that New York plays a part in that proof, then what the fuck am I doing? How could that
make me happy to stop him from that goal? In the end, it could destroy us as a couple. I touch his face. “No.”

“Well then? The simple fact is you’re the one with the money, Brian. Not me. Not yet. I can’t travel as easily as you
can. I can’t afford it and menial jobs don’t offer extravagant vacation schedules.”

I let that sink in. “There are some big accounts in New York that I’d like to spend more time pursuing.”

“Okay, keep talking.”

“I could do the rainmaking thing, part time, write off my expenses.”

“Good.”

“But not sure how your staying with me in some nice W hotel suite and ordering room service would aid your self
help cause?”

He winces. “That’s a point.”

“So, I’ll stay with you when I come to New York.”

He laughed. “Sheeya, right. In my fourth floor walk up with three roommates, no privacy, bad heating, no style, and
sharing a single bed in a room where a straight guy sleeps on the futon on the floor?”

“Couldn’t we trade him for the futon? Five minutes in a room with us, any straight guy will either switch teams or
go running for the door.”

He laughs. “This is so true, but…”

“But what?”

“I don’t know. I don’t want to share you with them.”

“Justin, you have to bend, too. If I’m doing all this travel to keep the flame alive, you have to give in, too.”

“I know. But that apartment is a hole.”

“Okay, here’s my second and final offer on this subject. I’ll find a cheap, but acceptable studio apartment in
Manhattan. Furnished. I’ll find a way to call it my corporate suite and I’ll write it off. You can’t live there because I
have to keep it real for the IRS. And I’ll make it available to big clients or to other people who work for me. But
when I’m in town, that’s where we’ll stay. It’s not a suite at the Westin with hot and cold running room service
waiters and pay for porn, but it’s not your fucking walk up either.”

He nods. “I like it. Look for the downtown area, since that’s where my job and my working studio are located,” he
reads my expression and retreats a little. “Try.”

I nod. “And you, goldilocks? What are the milestones you’re establishing to determine when you’re ready to join me
on a more permanent basis?”

“I want to be able to afford to rent my own studio with running water, heat and a bathroom, the rest doesn’t matter.
In Pittsburgh, wherever you choose to live. I want to know I can support that workspace on my own talent. And pay
half your rent.”

“I don’t have rent.”

“Your mortgage.”

“I don’t have a mortgage. I paid it off.”

He glares at me. “Work with me, Brian.”

“My condo fees? My utilities? The cost of condoms and lube?”

“Man, this will be years away!” he says with a laugh. “Ok, half of all that.”

“I understand about your studio, I do. But I don’t need your help with the rest.”

“I know. But I need to contribute.”

I look at his prideful little face and I have to smile. I love the fire in his belly. I never want to do anything to dampen
that passion for his art, for his life. Compromise. The name of the game is to make compromises you both feel good
about. “I’ll tally it up and give you an estimate of half of my expenses, excluding my wardrobe, of course.”

He laughs. “I could never afford to dress you.”

“I know. It’s an addiction. This will probably bomb big time, Justin.”

“Why?”

“Because we’ll still have long periods where we’ll be apart. I can’t get to New York for business reasons, or you
have a longer delay in being sold than you expected. I don’t know.”

“If it’s important enough, we’ll find a way. The difference is we’re trying, Brian. We haven’t gone dark on each
other. Neither of us could exist with a rigid schedule, where I travel one week and you the next. We’d both get
rebellious about that. I don’t love New York for the sake of living in New York. It’s a great city but no city is
greater than how I feel with you. But I have to have time to do what I need to do. You get that, right?”

“Yes.”

“And you know I would rather be with you, even when I’m not, right?”

“If you say so.”

“I do say so, Brian!”

His irritation amuses me. I smile. “Okay, okay, off your high horse, Hopalong.”

“Don’t put a doubting spin on my love for you. I’m sick of your always expecting the worst, always expecting to be
hurt.”

“Practice.”

“Well, get the fuck over it.”

I smile and kiss his tense neck. “I’m trying.”

He relaxes slightly and says, “Me too.”

“I know. Thanks.”

We kiss. The kiss is perfect. The compromise is still in play, and is imperfect. But it is a start. It is hope. It is
something out of nothing. The phone rings. He picks it up. He glances at me and then says, “Hi, Mom. How’d you
know I’d be here?” He glares into space. “Don’t you dare be smug. You interfered. You meddled. It was wrong and
it could have blown up in your face!” He sighs as I chuckle. “That was pure luck. He’s been better, he hurt himself
on the slopes. No, not serious, just painful and stupid.” He glances at me and grins. “Yeah, I know.”

She must have said that sounds like Brian, or something like that, and I have to agree. He goes on. “I don’t know,
maybe. I’ll talk to him and call you tomorrow. Okay, bye.”

“I notice you didn’t mention your own stupidity on the slopes,” I say as he hangs up.

He shrugs. “It was nothing.”

“Right.”

“She invited us to dinner at her house tomorrow night.”

I sigh. Dinner with the in-laws. Who’d a thunk it? “Up to you.”

“Are you well enough?”

“Do I have to slay my own elk and skin it?”

“Maybe,” he says with a grin.

“Let’s compromise. I’ll eat the bread and veggies.”

He smiles and leans back on the sofa as I cover his mouth in a wet, sloppy kiss.

CHAPTER 18

Jennifer's POV

“I’m not sure having me here is a great idea,” Cynthia is trying to chicken out on me. Give it up, girl. We’re in my
kitchen, preparing jambalaya, one of Justin’s favorite dishes. He says Brian likes it. I suspect Brian would eat it just
to make him happy.

“If you think I’m taking all the blame for this, think again,” I tease her as I refill our glasses with this exceptionally
good merlot I found on sale at my favorite wine shop. I think we’re a little east of tipsy, which is making this whole
cooking thing more enjoyable.

“Here’s to a successful beginning, anyway,” Cynthia taps my glass with hers. We drink. I add a little more Tabasco
to the brew in the big wrought iron pot.

“They’re in the same room,” I observe. “They had a couple days alone together after they found each other, as I
knew they would. We can’t live their lives for them, and make the right decisions for them, they have to do that. But
at least we got them in the same vicinity through a little careful planning.”

“And then nature took its course,” she says with a smile. “Maybe I should turn my shitty love life over to your
manipulations.”

“Forget it,” I say with a sigh. “Look at my own.”

She begins slicing a baguette to add the butter and garlic seasoning. We’ll then wrap it in foil until it’s time to put it
in the oven. “Do you think you’ll ever get married again, Jennifer?”

“I’m in no rush to marry, and I really don’t think I need to be married. But I would like someone to date. I miss
having a man in my life. So long as he isn’t Craig.” We both giggle, a sure sign of too much good wine. Molly
comes in with her usual adolescent scowl. What makes adolescents so nasty anyway? Little do they know how good
they have it. Youth is truly wasted on the young.

“I’m not eating that,” she dismisses the jambalaya with a glance.

“Why not?” Cynthia asks, unclear on the concept of teenaged girls and their moods. It’s been awhile since she was a
nasty teenaged girl, and way longer than that for me. Molly narrows her eyes at the pretty blonde.

“Because it’s rank. It smells funny and it’s too spicy.”

“Then you can eat salad and bread,” I inform her as she opens the freezer and glares at the myriad of “lite” pre-
packaged meals.

“I’ll fix something for myself and eat in my room.”

“Molly, your brother and his partner are coming to dinner. You will join us and you will act human.”

She turns to look at me. “Brian is coming?”

I nod. She slams the refrigerator shut and storms out of the room, proclaiming, “You could have told me! I have to
change!”

Cynthia and I share a look and I shrug. “His charm extends beyond the boys of Babylon.”

She laughs. “Don’t I know it? I went through my crushing on Brian stage.”

“You did?”

“Oh sure. When I was his assistant at the other firm. My first day on the job, I was telling my friends, ‘I’m going to
marry my boss’. I used all my little tricks on him. Flinging the hair back, short skirts, glittery lip gloss, a black bra
under a white blouse, but he was a brick wall. Then one day he said to me that we were having a very important
client meeting the next day and suggested I wear my Ellen Tracy suit, that it looked good on me. And instead of the
Ferragamo’s I usually wore it with, try the Jimmy Choo slingbacks since they sexed it up subtly. Ding, ding, ding, it
finally got through that Mr. Metrosexual wasn’t so metro after all. He was gay.”

I laugh. “It is difficult to tell with Brian. He comes across as straight, unless you happen to see him with my son, and
then there’s no doubt. I raised Justin, and I always suspected he could be gay. He’s just effeminate enough to
broadcast that fact, but Brian is a tough read.”

“He has his queenie moments, believe me. He may not be effeminate, but he can queen out with the best of the
drama monarchs.”

We both giggle. “I hated Brian, at first,” I admit. “I felt like he was taking advantage of Justin. He was too old, too
sophisticated. I knew he would hurt him, and he did. But then I saw how he stood up to my husband and that started
me thinking. Later, when Justin got bashed, I blamed Brian. I felt he shouldn’t have gone to that prom, that he set
him up for the trouble that came. Looking back, I know it was a loving gesture, his showing up there at that prom,
and very courageous. I’m firmly convinced of how much he loves my son. Brian’s very vulnerable, beneath all that
egomania. I think I’ve transferred some of my protective mama feelings to him.”

“God knows he needs it, given that she-wolf who gave birth to him.”

“At least he has Debbie.”

“Don’t get me started on her.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean from watching Debbie interact with Brian, I’m reminded of a shit sandwich. It looks fine on top and bottom
but in the middle, it’s still full of shit. She’s so inconsistent in her feelings for Brian. She goes from loving him or
appearing to love him, to treating him like shit in five minutes flat.”

I realize I’ve seen that happen. But that’s Debbie. She’s so volatile. The front door opens and I hear Justin say,
“We’re here.” We meet halfway between the kitchen and the living room. Brian isn’t with him, but he’s holding his
partner’s coat, so I assume he’s here somewhere. I kiss his cheek as he sniffs the air. “Jambalaya?”

I nod. “Where’s Brian?”

“Sitting down. I’m getting him a Coke. He’s not drinking at the moment.”

I walk past him and see Brian sitting rather stiffly in the suede chair with the matching ottoman. He doesn’t attempt
to get up. I can read his discomfort in his pallor and his pose. He offers me a half smile and a salute, but I lean over
to kiss his clammy forehead. “How badly are you hurt?”

“I’m sidelined for the Super Bowl. There goes the Steelers last hope for a win.”

I laugh at that. “I made a nice raw veggie and ranch dip? Want some?” I pick up the tray, but he waves it away.

“No thanks. I’ll save myself for dinner.”

“Brian, do you want to lie down? You look miserable.”

“It’s that damned Corvette, Mom,” Justin re-enters and hands Brian a can of Coke. I try to tell him to please pour it
in a glass but he never hears me so I’ve given up. I think drinking out of cans is tacky. “It’s so low, getting him in
and out of the car was a torture, and the shocks on that thing are ridiculous.”

“Don’t dis my car,” Brian grumbles. “It’s not the car’s fault I’m banged up.”

Justin flops down on the couch and sips his beer from a bottle. He beams at Brian and replies, “Yeah, whose fault is
that again?”

“If you give me a minute, I can find a way to make it your fault, Sunshine.”

I smile at one man and then the other. They’re interacting again. Cynthia joins us. “Hi, boss. Justin.”

“Didn’t I fire you?” Brian glares at her and she laughs.

“Billing system, remember?”

He continues to glare as my son says, “Both of you were wrong to do what you did. It was manipulative and
interfering and could have blown up in your faces. You don’t have the right to pull games on us. This is our
relationship, not yours.”

“You’re both so stubborn and prideful that you sat in your separate cities and were separately miserable. Friends,
and moms, don’t let friends be miserable if they can help them.” I explain. Cynthia high fives me.

“You know what they say about the best laid plans, right?” Brian contributes.

“At least it’s a plan, Brian. You two didn’t seem to have one, now did you?”

Silence. Brian laughs. “Who knew women would be making an effort to restore order in my miserable love life?”

Justin leaned over to kiss the top of his head, bringing a grimace from him. “Maybe that’s what was missing. The
feminine touch?”

“Really? You mean you aren’t feminine enough?”

I watch Justin elbow him and Brian groan as if in more pain than he is. The obvious affection between them makes
me feel warmer than any wine. Any Tabasco sauce. Anything.

“Hi, Brian,” Molly’s voice comes from the stairs. We all look over at her. She’s gone from glum adolescent in
sweats to Lolita in short skirt and tummy revealing top. She’s obviously unclear on the concept of gay, but then she
still has time to learn. Justin leans back against Brian, staring at his sister as Brian says,

“Uh, hi, Molly. Nice belly button.”

She beams as her brother drops his head on Brian’s shoulder, muffling his laughter in his lover’s sweater.

Chapter 19

Brian's POV

Thank God for Cynthia.

Not that I would ever tell her that. But I think it at least once a week, often more. Tonight, she offered to drive me
home in her comfortable, if boring, Lexus SUV, and Justin would follow in the Vette. It must be a mark of how very
uncomfortable I am that I agreed to this plan. The idea of dropping into that sports car and then trying to drag my ass
out of it held no appeal.

"I must be paying you too much," I opine as I look around the luxurious leather interior of her car. She laughs.

"You don't pay me a fraction of what I'm worth to you."

She's right about that. I close my eyes. The pain sort of rolls through me like waves hitting a beach. Intense, then
retreat, intense, then retreat. I know this is probably the peak period of pain, when the ripped muscles and knitting
bones are complaining the loudest, but I wish it would pass. I lean my head against the headrest and close my eyes.

"God, Brian, you really are in pain. Should you see a doctor?"

"Been there, done that. Sick of doctors. Nothing to be done but ride it out."

"Did he give you good stuff for the pain?"

"Nothing, the sadist. But I guess I'd rather keep my mind clear right now, anyway, and that shit tends to make me
loopy."

"How's it going with Justin? You two seemed really good together tonight."

I open my eyes to glare at her pretty profile. "Nothing's settled. And don't meddle in my life again, in case I didn't
make that point earlier."

"You made it, Brian. I can still feel the spear in my gut. Believe me. God, I'm so glad you're queer."

Okay, that one surprises me. "What do you mean?"

"If you were straight, I wouldn't have let up until you dated me and that would've been such a disaster. Titantic,
iceberg, the whole sinking to the bottom of the ocean thing."

I chuckle, and it hurts to do so. "Thanks. A guy always likes to hear a woman say that dating him would be an epic
disaster."

"It's true. I would've fallen in love with you, you wouldn't have fallen in love with me, you'd break my heart, I'd
have to get another job and then I'd compare every man I dated after you unfavorably."

"How do you know I wouldn't have fallen in love with you?"

"Because I know you. You think being straight would make you any less promiscuous? No, you'd just be playing in
a different arena. Women would be hitting on you the same way men do now."

"Women do hit on me."

"See? You're gay and they hit on you. Imagine if you were straight. I don't have Justin's persistence and
determination. I could never wait you out. My ego wouldn't allow it."

"Is there a point to this fantasy disaster?"

She stops at a traffic light and peers in my direction. "The point is, you found a perfect partner for you, Brian. He
adores you. You adore him. Quit being stupid about it."

"The light turned green. Generally means go in these parts."

"You know I'm right," she says as she gives it the gas.

"I know you're meddling again."

"You tried everything you could think of to get rid of him, to push him away, from brutal promiscuity to martyrdom.
Total extremes. You still love him. He still loves you. Figure it out."

"Seriously, Cynthia, shut the fuck up. It's none of your fucking business."

"It's my business becasue I care about you, Brian. You've moved from the impossible dream to a friend. I've seen
your pain. It all seems so pointless to me."

I stare out the window at my town. Pointless. The pain or the relationship? "We both want to be together, but
making it happen and making it work is so difficult."

"If it's worth it, you'll figure it out together. I'd kill to love someone so much and to be so loved by someone. It's
rare, Brian. Don't waste it."

I think back to my dream of Vic. Dancing at that nightmare version of Babylon where all the boys are over fifty.
That dream haunts me more than I can say to anyone. I don't want to be one of those pathetic old queens, still
gyrating under the mirrored ball long after the strike of midnight. Getting older sucks. But I don't want to be old and
ridiculous. Nor do I want to be old and alone. Nor do I want to be alone now. Her hand on my arm makes me flinch.
"What?"

"We're here. Do you need help?"

I look at my building on Tremont Street as if I've never seen it before. I'm sure he's already there. If that Vette can't
beat this Lexus, then what is the point? I look up at my windows. The lights are on and someone is at home. How
nice that is. How comforting. "I can do it," I tell her and my hand hovers over the door handle but then I turn
towards her. I slip a hand on the back of her neck. It feels so delicate to me, unlike a man's neck that's all muscle and
tendon. Her soft blonde hair falls over my fingers. I lean in and kiss her on the mouth. Her lips are soft, her mouth is
small, and when I slip her the tongue, her tongue feels tentative and receptive but passive. There is not the same
urgency when kissing a girl, the same "let's just get it done" intensity I feel with men. Kissing women is more of a
courtship, a dance, a preliminary to the main event that may or may not happen. I remember all those confusing
emotions as we kiss. It feels nice. If I were straight, I would've dated Cynthia, and it would've been a disaster. She's
right. She's right about the rest, too.

I feel her fingers on the back of my head and then I break off the kiss and lean back to grin at her. "Never write me
off as some safe old faggot," I warn her. "I'm Brian fucking Kinney. I'm always on my game."

She shakes her head, still a little dazed by my move, and I force myself to make a less than pathetic exit from the car
despite the pain, not wanting to contrast my pronouncement with the reality of who I am right now. I wave and
walk/limp into the building. He's waiting at the elevator, downstairs, arms crossed at his chest. "You always kiss the
help goodnight like that, boss?"

I lean a heavy arm across his shoulders and let him walk me into the waiting elevator. "She dismissed me as a
harmless faggot, and I don't like to be dismissed."

"You are a harmless faggot. Harmless to her, anyway."

I glare at him. I hate it when he sees through me. "She doesn't have to know that."

"She does know that."

This fucking elevator is so slow. It's like torture. I really want to lie down now. We walk into the loft and he locks
the door and trails me to the bedroom. I let him help me undress. I'm too tired to argue. This little outing was so
exhausting, which is just sad. I'm sick of feeling incapacitated. The cancer, the collarbone, now this. I'm in a bad
mood, all of a sudden. He helps me under the sheets and then climbs in with me. I feel his body curve gently against
my back. It feels good, warm, soothing.

"What's wrong?" He persists.

I don't want him to go back. "Nothing. Tired." I don't like it that Cynthia read me so well.

"Come back with me," he whispers. "Let's look for that little flat together. Let's have that place leased before we
separate again. Let's know it's there to bind us."

I turn over, painfully, to face him. "Yeah?"

He kisses me. "Yeah."

I smile. He kisses me again and then grimaces. "What's wrong?"

"You taste like girl."

I laugh and pin him back on the pillow, plunging my tongue into his mouth, feeling his urgent, demanding, hot
response. This is what it's about for me. It wasn't that Cynthia isn't a good kisser or even that she isn't a man. It's that
she isn't Justin. His arms close around my neck and suddenly my pain begins to recede as other hormones take over
my body. I let go and relax in his embrace, knowing what will happen next, knowing that I'll like it, and knowing
that this is exactly what I wanted for Christmas.

Chapter 20

Justin's POV

Six Months Later.

I know he isn’t coming, so why do I keep looking for him? It’s not his fault. I’m disappointed, but not mad at him
for staying away. He had legitimate business to take care of, a huge pitch and a dinner with potential clients from
Europe, so it couldn’t be postponed. He’ll be here this weekend. We can come to the gallery together while he’s in
town, but it’s not the same as my opening.

He feels terrible about it, so I need to let it go. But more than all of these art junkies and art critics and skinny people
in black trying to be cool, I wish Brian were here. I know he would hang back on the fringes, not wanting to
interfere as I circulate among all the chardonnay sippers telling me I’m brilliant. Occasionally I’d catch his eye and
he’d give me that Kinney smirk that says “Don’t get too full of yourself. The adulation is bullshit, it’s the work that
matters.”

The work is good.

The best work I’ve ever done.

I’m proud of it, even though I’m absolutely exhausted from working my part time jobs and painting all hours. When
I’d go to Pittsburgh to visit him, all I ever wanted to do was fuck and sleep. In that order. Then I’d be back in my
little attic garret painting like a mad man.

This show fell out of the sky for me. The owner of the gallery saw my painting in the restaurant where I work as a
waiter a few nights a week. They let me hang art on the brick walls, and I’ve sold more than a few to diners. Not
cheap prices, but not huge, and the owner of the restaurant gets a cut. This gallery owner not only bought it, but
resold it for three times what he paid and then asked to see what else I had.

I remember thinking he looked as out of place as Brian does in my workspace, standing in this dusty room,
overpowered by the stench of oil based paint and turpentine, his expensive suit in constant danger of brushing
something wet and being ruined by it. Unlike Brian, who loves everything I paint with the bias of a partner, this guy

was very critical and picky, segregating the exact canvases I consider my best work. And so the gallery exhibition
was born.

I was five canvases short of an exhibition, with two months to pull it together. Brian was very understanding,
traveling to New York instead of asking me to travel, sacrificing time together when he was here so that I could
work. How unfair that on the big night, he had a conflict. This effort was almost as much his as mine. Certainly he
was the one factor that kept me sane. When I thought I couldn’t do it, couldn’t keep going, he told me I wasn’t a
quitter and kicked my ass back to the studio.

My mom is here, Daphne is here, we’ll have a great late dinner together when it’s all over, and I’ll crash at their
hotel. But Brian…I pause in front of the one portrait among all the abstractions. He hasn't seen this and it’s not for
sale. The gallery owner wanted me to hang it just so they could see what he called the “depth” of my range. It’s
clearly marked “Artist’s Private Collection”. The name of portrait is “His Eyes”. It’s a huge close up of Brian’s face,
concentrating on his incredible, all seeing, all feeling eyes.

Daphne gasped when she saw it and my mother cried a little. Women. Brian would grimace and ask me who it was
supposed to be. But I know he’d be touched and flattered. For me, it was a work of love, a way of pouring my
feelings for him into the paint and letting it spread across a blank canvas. It kept him with me when he was gone. I
could look across my studio and see that face and feel less alone.

As the evening progresses, I notice more and more paintings are marked with little red dots, signifying a sale. Of
course the owner gets a cut, just like at the restaurant, but even with that, I should be doing pretty well. No telling
what the critics are going to say about the work. This is New York. They can be cruel.

“Who’s the hot stud in the portrait?”

I turn and stare at him in disbelief. No way! He looks irresistible in all black, dressed as the bad guy for summer.
Black silk shirt, black linen trousers, a black alligator belt with a silver buckle. I lose my studied, New York artiste
cool completely and throw my arms around his neck, knocking him back a little with a kiss. He laughs and peels me
off of his body.

“Control yourself, Picasso. We’re among the cool kids.”

I can’t let him go completely, though. I thread my fingers through his, beaming at his handsome face. “You said…”

“I know what I said,” he interrupts. “But I told the clients that my partner was opening his first Tribeca gallery
exhibition tonight, and as much as I’d love to smoke pussy and talk about cigars with them over steaks, I really
needed to be in New York.”

“You didn’t have to.”

He slips an arm behind my waist and forces me to look into his eyes. “Yeah, I did.”

I kiss him again. I know some are staring, whispering, but I don’t care. Let them. They recognize him from the
portrait and the gay thing still brings out a little titter, even in New York. He gives me a swat on the seat. “Now go
make nice with the deep pockets. When and why the painting of me?”

“You like it?” He shrugs. He loves it. Knew he would. “It keeps me company when we’re apart.”

“In that case, you painted the wrong part of me.”

I laugh and wiggle my fingers at him as I drift away to make nice, watching him gravitate towards my mom.

Later, the four of us have a nice dinner at a quiet café in Tribeca. I don’t know if I’ve ever been happier. The
exhibition was a great success, although I won’t know what my haul is until later. And the art stays up for ten more
days. My mom is here, my best friend is here, but mostly Brian is here, and I can’t stop smiling as I slip a hand
under the table to rest on his hard thigh. He covers my fingers with his.

We all have a wonderful time and then split up into two cabs. They go to the Tribeca Grand where they’re staying,
and we go to the flat. We all agree to meet tomorrow for brunch. I lean my head against his shoulder as we ride, our
hands locked together between us. “Thank you,” I whisper and he smiles.

“Shut up.”

“I mean it.”

“So do I. Shut up.”

“Brian…”

He leans over to kiss me, shutting me up in the most powerful way he knows. At the apartment, there’s no making it
to the bed. There’s no time to strip off clothes. We open, shove and lower what has to be opened, shoved and
lowered in order for his cock to find its way to my ass. I lean over the table, gripping it in both hands as he pounds
me. We haven’t hiked the air conditioning, so we’re both sweaty and limp when it’s finished. So much for his
beautiful clothes.

A shared shower feels good as the apartment cools down with refrigerated air. We do it again, only with less frantic
desperation. In bed, in a dark room, naked, we lie there on our backs, my head on his shoulder, my leg crossing his,
as he inhales some chronic and says, “I saw my cancer doctor yesterday.”

I tense. Oh god. I can go for months without thinking about the fact Brian had cancer. His fake ball is as real as the
other one to me now, I don’t really think about the fact it’s a prosthesis. But when I let myself remember, when I let
myself think that he’s not really cured until he’s cancer free for five years, I feel physically ill.

“It’s all good,” he says, and I realize I haven’t breathed as I exhale slowly. “No sign of cancer.”

I kiss him, tasting the drug, tasting him. “Thank God.”

“Yeah. I wouldn’t want to lose the other one. Not much fun to be a eunuch from what I’ve heard.”

But we both know that’s not as scary as some of the other possibilities. Testicular cancer can spread to the spine, the
brain, the lungs, any organ. If it metastasizes, it can kill and kill quickly. He found it early, I remind myself. They
didn’t even have to do chemo. I reach over and hug him tightly and he gives me an exaggerated moan as he pries my
arms away. “What is wrong with you?”

I raise myself to one elbow and look down at him in the darkness, smoothing his hair back from his forehead. “If
something happened to you…”

He presses a finger to my lips to stop my thought. “Don’t jinx it. I’m fine.”

We kiss and I relax into his embrace once again. “How long can you stay?”

“I need to go back Sunday night, Justin. I’m meeting with them Monday before they fly home. I’ll get their verdict.”

I’m disappointed that the trip is so short, but I understand. “Maybe I’ll fly back with you. The exhibition is finally
behind me. I can take a few days.”

“I’d like that. You haven’t been home in a while.”

“I know. I’ve missed the loft.”

“The loft? You’ve missed the loft?”

I laugh at his emphasis. “You know what I mean.”

“I’m afraid I do. You love me for my digs.”

“I’ve always loved you for your digs.”

“Well, get over it. I’m moving.”

I sit up and stare at him, switching on the lamp so I can see his face. “Homo says what?”

“Homo says he’s moving.”

“Moving. Just like that.”

“Well, no. It will require some planning. Can you turn that off?”

“No. Do you think this is something we should discuss? Is that not my home, too? You can’t just make a unilateral
decision to move!”

“Chill, drama baby. I’m just moving one floor. The big loft came open and I’m taking it.”

I relax a little. I love that loft. We’ve always lusted after it. It has two more bedrooms and a bath and a half more
than he has now, plus terrace access. Of course, it costs twice as much, too. “Where are Ben and Jerry going?” Their
real names are Ren and Jimmy, but they’re two plump queens who look like they should make ice cream, so we
renamed them, privately.

“Where all old queens go to wear caftans and chase beach boys. South Beach. They bought a condo overlooking the
water.”

We both laugh. “Can you afford it?”

“Yeah, life is good.”

“Do you really want all that room?”

“Well, Gus has to have his own space. That’s part of the agreement.”

Brian sued for visitation three months ago and has put tremendous pressure on the lesbians. He hired a shark.
Melanie is no match. “What agreement?”

He grins at me. “We’ve reached settlement. I wanted to tell you face to face.”

“Tell!”

He explains the terms of the agreement that gives him access to his son, in Pittsburgh, on a regular rotating basis. He
agrees to hire a nanny to watch over Gus while Brian is working, and he’s taken on other obligations, like college

and insurance. None of that matters. He gets to see Gus and I know how much that means to him. “I’m so happy for
you.”

“Listen, Sunshine, this isn’t just about me. You’re my partner. It hits your life, too, having a hyperactive kid around
some of the time. How do you feel about that?”

“I love Gus. You know that.”

He pulls me down on top of him and kisses me, hard. “I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you, too. Always.”

We kiss and slip slowly into round three.

Chapter 21: The Conclusion. Brian’s POV

Six months later, Christmas Day

I have such a headache. If Gus shoots me with that fucking laser whatever the fuck it is that makes that huge
popping noise with each pull of the trigger, I may have to pitch his favorite gift in the dumpster. He’ll go to bed
before I do, I’ll get my chance. The loft looks like a tsunami swept in, disarranged everything, and then pulled out,
leaving behind all the debris it could carry. Tinsel, ribbon, paper, boxes, plates of food, glasses of wine, maybe too
much wine, and in the middle of it all, there’s that fucking Christmas tree.

“Have you noticed how that tree isn’t even straight?” I point out to Justin as I prop my feet up on the table and
watch Gus dig into another, hopefully quieter, stash of toys.

“Why should anything in this house be straight?” he says with a laugh as he plops down beside me on the sofa and
offers me a pick from a plate of frosted Christmas cookies. Jennifer made them and sent a tin home with us. At this
rate, between Justin and Gus, they’ll be history by tomorrow.

“Do you know how much sugar is in one of those things?” I challenge him and he grins at me.

“If you hum a few bars…”

“Shut up,” I massage my temples. Not only is the tree less than straight, it looks like it might go up like a torch if
exposed to any source of heat. Such as the lights that blink and twinkle and bubble and whatever the fuck those
frosted ones do. I’ve never seen so many different kinds of lights on one tree. It looks like an electricity experiment.
“Tomorrow, we take that thing down before it torches the building.”

“NO!” Gus rings in from the floor, reaching for his laser of justice and vengeance.

“Ok, ok,” I mollify him. “If you leave that damned gun alone, I’ll let it stay up another day.”

He goes back to his hand held baseball whatever it is game. The annoying little blips and beeps that emanate from it
are far more tolerable than that gun.

“You shouldn’t let him be the boss of you,” Justin teases me and I shrug.

“Sometimes surrender is the best course. Will you go get me some Advil? My head is killing me.”

“Did you break a leg? Get your own Advil.”

“This is what happens when you let the little woman have her own career,” I complain as I struggle to my feet.
“They forget their place.”

I feel the pillow hit me squarely in the back as I go into the bathroom and swallow a couple gel caps. It’s been a long
day, beginning while it was still dark. Gus woke us up with a demand to see what Sandy Claws brought him. After
being up late putting his toys together and wrapping even more loot, we were both exhausted. But we complied, and
drank coffee and feigned excitement as he tore through his haul like a Texas tornado.

Then it was brunch with Jennifer and Molly, dinner at Deb’s, a tasteful little cocktail whatever at Em’s and back
here for Chinese from cartons and more Gus activity. He held up well, the poor kid, running on adrenalin and greed.
The only time he conked out was at Em’s, sprawled over everyone’s discarded coats on Em’s bed. Now he’s wired
again, and I’m feeling my age. Cringe.

Justin is kind enough to take him to the bathroom for a bath. One nice thing about being in the bigger loft, we have a
tub. Gus loves the Jacuzzi jets and for once, he doesn’t complain when he has to be bathed. He also has his own
room and so do we. With a door. For privacy. The sudden quiet lulls me into an unplanned nap, and I’m rudely
awakened when Justin sits down next to me and pats my leg.

“I was going to tell you to kiss him goodnight, but he fell asleep two paragraphs into the story I was reading him.”

“I told you he isn’t into gay s&m.”

He laughs. “Yet.”

We both chuckle at that. “We could restore order to the disaster zone, or we could go to bed. What’s your
preference?”

“It’s still Christmas and you have another present to open.”

I glance at his profile. I don’t need another present. The last six months have been enough of a present to last me
through several Christmases. He’s here or I’m there with regular frequency and it’s going well. I miss him when
we’re apart, but I cope. And now I have Gus here, according to a strictly enforced schedule. I have a nanny to stay
with him when I have to work, but I don’t want her around when I’m home. The whole point of this custody battle
was to give me more time with my son, not to introduce him to a nice nanny.

I can’t say things are good between the lesbians and me. But for Gus’s sake, we’re working it. That’s all I can ask.
I’m, dare I say it, happy. I’m happy. I like my life. I’d like them both to be around more, but gluttony is a mortal sin
and I’m a good Catholic boy. Yeah, right. Some things will never change.

“What’s this?” I ask as he pulls a familiar red box out from sequestration beneath a sofa cushion. Cartier? He
already gave me those leather gloves lined in cashmere that I wanted.

“Open it.” His bracelet gleams from his wrist. I hope to hell he didn’t buy me one to match, with all his income from
his art sales. It looks good on my femmy partner, but on me, it would be ridiculous. I’d wear it just so I wouldn’t
hurt his feelings, but I wouldn’t like it. My idea of a bracelet is shells on leather.

I prepare myself to look happy and touched, but when I push the button and the box flops open, he says, “I want the
box back.”

Inside, there’s no bracelet, just a key. I look at him and dangle it between us. “Is there a treasure chest this fits? Only
I have to find it first?”

He laughs. “It’s a key to my studio.”

Oh God, how I hate that awful place above the poster shop. It’s musty, dusty, smells of turpentine and you have to
piss in the rusty sink. “Uh, okay,” this must mean something to him. Not sure what. “Thanks. But I don’t think I’ll
be going to your studio unless you’re either in it or with me. Is this in case you lose your key? Because having a
spare in Pittsburgh may not be the brightest idea.”

“You really are dense, to be so smart, Mr. Kinney.”

“Illuminate me.”

“It’s to my studio on Tremont Street. About a block and a half from here. Top floor of the old Adams Hat Factory.
Cheap as shit, lots of room, lots of light and get this, it has working plumbing. They’re converting it into living lofts,
but for now, I can get this space for a song.”

“Are you moving out?” I ask with a little apprehension, still not quite grasping the concept. He rolls his eyes. Taps
me on the head with his knuckles. I grab his hand to stop him. “Head hurts. Remember?”

“It’s to work in, Brian. I need room to work, solitude, the ability to slop paint around and not care what I hit with it.”

“So it’s your Pittsburgh studio?”

“It’s my only studio. I’m moving back.”

I stare at him. No way. No fucking way! “Why?”

“Is that your reaction?”

“It’s one of my reactions.”

“Because I can. Because I have collectors who hound me now, galleries who want to show my work, not just in New
York, but in other major cities, an agent who knows how to promote me, and money in the bank. I did it. I proved to
myself that I can do this for a living, on my own, and I am. I may not be rolling in it, but if I had to do everything on
my own dime, I could. And I miss you and I miss being here with you and with Gus and I’m ready.” He pauses,
narrows those blues at me. “That is, if you want me to move back full time.”

I refuse to do the happy dance that’s playing in the back of my mind. My headache has suddenly vanished. I refuse
to let him see how much this announcement has thrilled me. I’m proud of him and I’m happy for myself, for us. I
manage a shrug. “I don’t mind, either way. You decide.”

“Okay, in that case I’ll stay in New York. We can keep commuting.”

I glance at him. “Is that what you want?”

He hits me in the face with a pillow. “No, you asshat, that’s not what I want! I want to be here, as I’ve said, with you
and with Gus. But I’d like to read a little enthusiasm from you, if you don’t mind.”

I bite my smile, but reach over to kiss him. “How’s that?”

“You call that enthusiasm?”

“I call that a start.”

I take his hand and lead him into our bedroom and shut the door. Gone are the days when we can fuck on any
surface in the loft, at least not while Gus is in residence. It’s a small sacrifice, since we can always close the door,
and he’s only here half the time, with his moms the rest. We crawl onto the bed, snatching off clothes as we go.

“I was so afraid you were going to give me that damned bracelet,” I whisper as my hands travel across the map of
his body.

“Are you crazy? That’s two and a half months studio rent!”

I laugh at that. Good decision on his part. I feel him grab a handful of me, and I don’t flinch, not even when he
fondles my false nut. I used to be so self-conscious about it, I never wanted anyone to touch it, but with him I’m
completely at ease. I trust him. “I want to pay part of the expenses here, too, Brian.”

“Can we talk about that stuff later? It makes my dick soft.”

“Nothing makes your dick soft.”

He’s wrong, but that’s okay, let him think that. “When are you moving back?” I reach for the lube and condoms
before we go into overdrive.

“I want to be permanent by New Year’s Eve.”

“That’s not so far from now.”

“I don’t have that much to do. It’ll work. Especially if you fly up and help me.”

“Sure. Gus can see New York all dressed up for the holidays. It will be fun for him.”

“Now can we stop talking and start fucking?”

Sounds like a deal, I think to myself. I fill up his mouth with my tongue and prepare to fill up the opposite end with
another part of my anatomy.

The next morning, I’m the first one up. The key is still on the sofa, where we left it. I fetch my key ring and slip it on
the loop to hang with the others. I smile as I run my finger over the jagged edge of it. Home, he’s coming home. I
start filling a black trash sack with the debris from yesterday, making sure the goods are out of each box before it
gets crushed in the sack. I consider tossing Gus’s noisy fucking laser gun, but even I can’t be that cruel.

The drapes are open to the terrace. It’s more of a wide deck overlooking the city. Right now the benches and railings
are covered in a shimmer of snow. The sky is gray, threatening more severe weather. I don’t mind. It’s the most
beautiful day after Christmas I’ve ever seen.

“I peed in my bed, Daddy,” Gus suddenly announces. He’s standing there in pajama top, but no bottom. I blink. He
seems almost proud of this accomplishment.

“Why?”

He shrugs. “I dunno. I guess I didn’t get waked up.” So much for the secret shame of bed-wetting.

Another nice feature about the bigger loft, I have my own washer and dryer on premise. “Let’s go get in the tub,” I
tell him, unwilling to whiff piss every time I’m near him today. I slap Justin’s beautiful exposed rump on our way to
the bathroom.

“Get up. You need to watch the Gusmeister while I strip his bed.”

“Another wet dream?” he teases and I glare at him.

“Yeah. Very wet.”

He steps into his sweats as he stumbles towards the bathroom. At least we all have the same equipment, so we don’t
have to pretend modesty.

In Gus’s room, I clear off his bed and put everything, including his slightly damp teddy bear, into the washing
machine. I pause as I measure fabric softener into the cup.

What the fuck am I doing?

Where is my hangover?

Where is my post-tweak dry mouth?

Where is my curiosity about who and what I did last night?

When did I turn into Martha Stewart?

Moment of panic.

It passes.

Okay, so this isn’t as glamorous as banging boys in the backroom of Babylon. But I spent one too many Christmases
in the company of lonely and desperate men who had nowhere to go, no one to spend a holiday with, no reason to
treat the day any differently than say last Thursday. I was one of those men. I even liked it. At least for a while.

Some future Christmas, I may be back there, no one knows how their life will play out. We may lose the fire along
the way, as so many couples do. We may decide we’re better off moving on. What was that old Lord Byron poem I
liked so much when I went through my poetic faggot phase, or some approximation of it? The line goes, “Pale grew
thy cheek, and cold, colder thy kiss…”

It could happen to us. It could happen to anyone. No matter how much you don’t want it to fall apart, it can. But for
now, our silence and tears are in the past and we’re making our own history, in our own way. Whether it’s someone
else’s way really doesn’t matter.

I add water to the fabric softener. I close the lid, and then close the louvered doors. I go to the kitchen and start the
coffee. The loft is quiet. I hear the hum of the washer and a vague echo of their splashing and playing in the
bathroom. I’m not alone.

No silence.

No tears.

No regrets.

END