Thank God.
“Good Lord, man, I was kidding before. Relax,” Griffin muttered, giving his tightly fisted hands a squeeze. “I don't mind this. Hell, I'm curious.” His boyfriend's grin glittered under the passing bright lights of midtown, bouncing off his glasses. “He's a dead ringer for me, isn't he?”
“Your twin,” Jim said. He let his hand linger on Griffin's, then rested on his knee. “It's eerie.”
“I knew it!” Griffin snuggled a little closer, assuring and warm. “You wanted me before you even met me.”
“Something like that.”
They passed the next few minutes of traffic and congestion in silence before the cab pulled over in front of the restaurant. Jim overpaid the cab driver as Griffin nearly jumped out of the backseat; clearly he was now in anticipation mode.
“Hurry up. We're like five minutes late.”
“What happened to being fashionably late?” Jim straightened his tie and smoothed a hand over his nearly non-existent hair.
“That's Hollywood. This is New York City—I think we're supposed to be early.”
“Let's go back to Hawaii, where no one needs to be anywhere but the beach.”
Griffin gave him a sympathetic look and slid his arm through Jim's. “I can't believe Mr. Workaholic likes retirement so much.”
“It's only been a few months. I might get antsy at some point.”
“We'll figure out a hobby for you. Like—needlework or painting landscapes.” Griffin led the way through the front door of the small bistro they'd selected to meet Matt and Evan at.
“Ha.”
“No, really. We'll ask my dad what he likes to do.” Griffin smirked as he slid his jacket off. The two men had gotten along so well that he'd constantly joked about being a third wheel.
“Shut up, youngster.” Jim took his jacket off and looked for the hostess. She approached with an armful of menus.
“We're meeting someone here. Might be under Haight?”
“They're already here. I'll take you back.” She gave them a pleasant but not flirty smile. A quick scan of the bar showed a mixture of couples, mostly same sex. Jim felt comfortable laying his hand on Griffin's back as they followed her to an intimate corner.
Matt Haight and his boyfriend were seated; Matt looked great—comfortable and in great shape, working a black knit sweater with some serious confidence. Jim felt the memories of the two lonely men from last year disappear a bit more from his mind. His boyfriend was neatly put together in a suit and tie, that tightly bound look recognizable to Jim in an instant. All business, always on guard. He didn't look as delighted as Matt when they spotted him and Griffin near the table.
“Hey, hey, look who's here!” Matt stood up and came around the table to give Jim a hug. Jim didn't resist—no matter how tight the boyfriend's lips got. His own boyfriend was already extending his hand for a shake.
“Griffin Drake. Nice to meet you,” he said politely as Jim slapped Matt on the back.
“Hell, you look good. Life is agreeing with you,” Jim smiled as he appraised Matt up close. He was right—he looked fantastic.
“You too. Nice retirement tan.” Matt winked as he gestured to the man at the table. “Jim Shea—Evan Cerelli.”
“A pleasure.” Jim extended his hand. “I've heard a lot about you.”
Evan nodded politely and shook Jim's hand. “Same here.” His tone was flat, so Jim ended the handshake quickly for both their sakes.
“Uh, Griffin you've already met. Matt, Griffin, Griffin, Matt.”
Griffin smiled sweetly. “Nice to meet you. And you're right—it's like looking into mirror.”
Matt looked confused as Jim shook his head.
“Ignore him. His blood sugar is low, and he gets nonsensical when that happens.” They sat down as Griffin laughed at his own joke.
“Quick, someone pass the breadbasket before I say something inappropriate.” The patient hostess handed the two newcomers their menus and drifted off for quieter confines.
They made general small talk while perusing the menus: the weather, the traffic, a quick overview of Griffin's famous friend the movie star, who was doing a play.
“I'm really excited about it,” Jim deadpanned, as Griffin explained the “mermaid and a pirate play poker” symbolism.
“It's going to be excellent,” Griffin insisted, kicking Jim under the table.
Matt took a sip of beer, not bothering to hide his smile.
“Darn, sorry to miss it.”
“Liar.” Jim decided on the steak and snapped his menu shut. “We do have an extra ticket, though—Griffin's dad wasn't feeling well and didn't make the trip down.”
“I couldn't ditch Evan, even for metaphorical pirates,” Matt said, putting his arm across the back of his boyfriend's chair.
Jim caught the slight tensing, and was confused for a moment, until the waiter announced his presence behind them.
They ordered quickly, drinks and food and the waiter sauntered off. Jim gave Evan another glance, but he didn't seem to have relaxed.
Griffin—as Griffin was wont to do—took the quietness at the table as an invitation to do his very best chatter. Griffin's father claimed as soon as soon as the boy uttered his first words, he made it his goal in life to fill uncomfortable silences.
He told some genuinely funny Hollywood tales and a good one about Jim on catamaran in Hawaii. Jim allowed the entire story to be told—even the part where he lost his swimming trunks.
“It was quite a spectacle,” Griffin smiled, giving Matt and Evan an eyebrow waggle. “I was worried we'd get followed home by the gawkers.”
Matt laughed heartily. Their drinks hit the second round; Evan stopped drinking, murmuring something about driving later. He didn't say much of anything else.
Food saved them for a while, saved poor Griffin's voice. Jim considered other topics as he cut into his steak. Police work was obvious, but he didn't want Griffin to get bored.
Although technically it was payback in advance for “The Wager” he would be subjected to later. A pirate and a mermaid playing cards? Really? People paid for that shit?
“So, Evan, you're a police officer?” Jim heard Griffin say. His heart swelled a bit; his boyfriend was trying, really trying, to make this evening a success.
“Vice, almost fifteen years,” Evan said quietly, picking at his tuna.
“Wow, cool.” Griffin waited a beat. “You ever do any undercover work?”
“No, not really.” Evan seemed to struggle to say more, a side glance to Matt who was stabbing his pot roast with an annoyed air. “I think I look a little obviously too much like a cop.”
Griffin squinted at him appraisingly. “Yeah, no offense.” He gestured toward Jim. “Like Officer Stud Muffin over here. It radiates off you guys.”
Matt seemed to be amused by the conversation; he pointed to Evan. “When we first started hanging out, we went to this bar. And they knew we were cops without saying a word. I'm convinced it's a secret skill of bartenders.”
“Like that place we met,” Jim said before entirely thinking the statement out. Everyone at the table was aware of how they met and what happened afterward (generally—Jim didn't kiss and tell, even when Griffin begged jokingly for details in bed that morning). And clearly not everyone was comfortable with it.
See: Evan's expression of distaste.
“Uh-huh,” Matt said, obviously feeling the temperature drop as well. “Exactly. I wonder if it's something they, uh—teach at bartending school.”
“You gotta know who's carrying,” Griffin said helpfully. “Or who could be a hero during a robbery. Or who you have to bribe for protection.” He even used air quotes.
Jim loved him, so very much.
“All he knows about cops he learned from television.”
Griffin sniffed, faux insulted. “Whatever. Everything you learned about everything else you learned from television.”
“I don't even know what that means.”
“Hu
mph.” Griffin went back to his meal, sneaking peeks at Jim and doing a whole “Seriously? The tension!” conversation with his mouth full of pasta. Jim was impressed.
The rest of the meal was awkward chitchat, mostly between Jim and Griffin, with Matt chiming in. Evan excused himself to go to the men's room, Matt said he had to make a phone call, and Griffin kicked back the rest of his third martini after they both walked away.
“Fuck, this is like the most tense dinner date ever!” he whispered, futzing with his hair in a clear nervous gesture. “Evan hates you, by the way.”
“Thanks for the update, Scrappy Doo.” Jim sighed as he stretched back in his chair. They had at least an hour more to kill before the play, and dessert didn't seem like a good idea at all.
Griffin glanced back toward the back of the restaurant. “By the way, Matt seems very nice. And he looks nothing like me—can I surmise he's more like me in bed?”
Jim sighed. “No, you may not. This is not a comparison or a contest, which is probably what's going through Evan's head. It's a slightly different situation, okay? I mean…” He realized he should have told Griffin this before, but it felt awkward to share too many details. “Evan was married before this. To a woman.”
“Should I be, like…offended or shocked by that?”
“No, of course not. But he and Matt never dated men—until they met.”
“Ohhhh. So this is a late-in-life thing.”
“They're younger than I am, you know.”
“Right, late in life.” Griffin smiled sweetly.
“Anyway. I think Evan's a little uncomfortable with Matt sleeping with me.”
“Because you have a giant, amazing dick and the mere act of sex with you makes Matt yours forever?”
“You're cut off from drinking right now.”
Griffin laughed, leaning against Jim. “I love you. I love teasing your grouchy ass.”
“Mmmmm, tell me that's a euphemism for something, please.”
“We have a play to go to, but afterward, I promise.” He tipped his head for a kiss and Jim, as per usual, was unable to resist.
“Ahem,” Jim heard Matt say as they pulled apart. Matt and Evan had returned; Matt was smiling, a little sadly, and Evan—Evan was looking around in a slightly frantic way, as if to see what reactions around them were.
There were, of course, no reactions that Jim cared about, but he gave a glance as well. No one seemed moved by their tame kiss to look up from their meals.
“Sorry,” Jim said, giving Evan a sympathetic look. Suddenly the discomfort seemed to be a bit clearer.
“Don't be. Just don't get carried away. Don't want Evan to have to arrest you,” Matt said lightly. He sat down and shook his empty beer bottle. “Seen the waiter?”
“Yeah, we should get some coffee,” Griffin said, though he looked a bit longingly at his martini glass.
“Maybe Irish coffee is a good compromise,” Jim offered. He looked around until he caught the eye of their waiter. He hoped he communicated, “Come quickly, please,” to get him to hurry.
“Dessert? Coffee?” he asked.
“God, yes—and another round of drinks.” Griffin bit his lip a second later. “Let me speak for myself—just me is fine.”
“And me,” Matt said.
“Hey, ditto.” Jim coughed into his hand. “And a pot of coffee.” He glanced at his boyfriend. “Chocolate cake?”
“How well you know me.” He turned to the waiter. “Two pieces of chocolate cake.”
Jim looked at Matt, who looked at Evan, who looked at the waiter. There was a long pause.
“Sounds good. I'll have the same,” Evan said finally.
“Nothing for me but the beer.” Matt finished off the ordering, and the waiter left. The silence lingered.
“So, Evan”—Griffin leaned on the table, all fake cheer—“thanks for having dinner with us. I know it must be a little awkward.”
“Oh God.” Jim kicked him under the table so hard his shoe nearly flew off.
Griffin ignored him. “Really. I think it's great that we don't let any of that ruin Jim and Matt's friendship.”
Evan's mouth moved, but didn't open; he was flat-out flummoxed.
“I mean—hey, let's face it. We don't come into a relationship without baggage, right? We have all this stuff that comes with us. And you have to deal with it, or whoa—elephant in the room.”
“Which I wish would sit on you,” Jim murmured. He looked helplessly at Matt.
“I'm just saying, I understand.” Griffin rolled his eyes. “I'm being sympathetic.”
“You're also being a brat. Sorry.”
“Ugh, did you just apologize for me? Jesus Christ, Jim—I'm going to pop you in the jaw when we get outside.”
Matt…laughed.
“I like him,” he said. Jim noticed he didn't have his arm on the back of Evan's chair, wasn't leaning into his space.
“You want him? He's housebroken.”
Griffin was still focused on Evan; they were locked into some sort of staring contest.
“Shut up, like you could live without me.”
Jim considered this. “An excellent point.”
Griffin settled in, elbows on the table, not blinking.
Evan did the same.
Jim looked around for the waiter.
* * *
“Really? That was just crazy shit,” Jim fussed, herding Griffin into a cab after saying good-bye to Matt and Evan—who had headed off toward the parking garage with a cloud of “oh we're gonna fight” gliding over them. “Did you have to get into a pissing match?”
“There was no pissing. There was staring.” Griffin gave the address of the theater to the cabby. “And you know what? I get all the other shit, I do. I get he's uncomfortable with you, with me. But did you catch his expression whenever you got too close to me? My grandmother is more tolerant than he is.”
“Exaggeration.” Jim sighed as he stared out the window. “He's not entirely out, and he's uncomfortable. You should be more tolerant.”
“Whatever. It bothered your friend Matt.”
“I know. I know.”
“That sucks.”
Griffin's annoyance segued into a quiet sadness. Jim reached down to squeeze his hand.
“I feel bad for both of them,” he said finally.
“Me too.”
“You should call Matt tomorrow and see how he is.”
“I will.”
“And you should—listen, I'm just throwing this out there, but maybe if Evan needs someone to talk to…”
“I thought you correctly deduced he hated me?”
“Okay, so maybe you're not the ideal person for him to speak to—there's always me.”
Jim patted Griffin's hand. “I love you, so much, but, uh—you were at the restaurant a few minutes ago, right?”
“It was tense. So what? I've lived in Hollywood for ten years. I can kiss your ass one day and string it up a flagpole the next day. It's an art form.”
“You keep talking about my ass—and I have to sit through a whole stupid play. Stop teasing.”
Griffin elbowed him. “Tell Matt to tell Evan if he wants to talk…”
“Right, Dr. Phil. I'll mention it.”
“Thank you. I'm just saying—make the offer.”
“You're a very nice man.”
“Thank you.”
Jim leaned over and kissed Griffin on the cheek.
Chapter Eleven
“Griffin!”
Jim turned his head as the feminine voice reached his ears. Griffin was chatting it up with the set designer whom he apparently knew from a shoot—honestly Jim wasn't paying attention. He was still trying to estimate the distance from their location in the middle of the lobby to the bar and how fast he could get there and back.
He gave his boyfriend a poke in the side as he gestured over to where Daisy was fighting through the crowd.
Sans arty mermaid costume, Daisy looked like herself—mostly. Jim notice
d most of her red hair was gone, styled into a little pixie cut that made her look about half her age and height in one fell swoop. She seemed so tiny as she worked her way through the well-wishers and hangers-on, he fought the urge to sweep through and clear a path.
“Griffin, Jim, hi,” she said breathlessly, finally making it into their little circle. “I'm so glad you're here.”
For a split second, he worried what Griffin's reaction would be—after all, their everyday contact had been limited for the past few months to brief, awkward phone calls. But then Griffin was moving past him to throw his arms around his childhood best friend, lifting her off the floor with an audible squeak.
“Don't break her. I didn't get enough cash at the ATM to pay for a movie star,” Jim said as Griffin whacked a few people in the shins as he gave her a whirl.
Daisy giggled nervously as Griffin set her down.
“So you're glad to see me,” she said, a little desperately, and Jim gave another glance toward the bar. Three drinks, he could carry three.
“Yeah.” Griffin sniffled as he smiled at her.
Jim decided to wait on the bar, and let his boyfriend lean against him, doing the quiet physical reassurance thing and trying not to glower at the woman who had betrayed her friendship with Griffin.
She clearly didn't expect an affirmative answer from Jim, but she gave him a sidelong peek. He cleared his throat and tried to relax his facial muscles.
“The play was, uh—good. I didn't fall asleep,” he offered. Daisy smiled and bit her lip.
“I think that's high praise.” Griffin sighed. He was rubbing Daisy's arm, and they both seemed on the verge of weepy hugs.
“It is,” Jim said.
Daisy gave a watery laugh. “I really appreciate you both coming, really. I know I can't apologize enough for what I did…”
“Water under the bridge,” Griffin said.
“But not entirely forgotten.” The words slipped out, and Jim endured the whip-quick look from Griffin. “Forgiven, though. You did your best to fix things, and I appreciate that. You didn't let Ed Kelly down.”
He left out the part where she kind of let Griffin—her best friend forever and a day—down, but he didn't think anyone needed the reminder. Daisy's face was pale, her bottom lip was quivering, and Griffin's glare was burning a hole in the side of Jim's neck.
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