by TL Gehr
“I mean it, Jones. You remember Brendon Smithson?”
She rolls her eyes. “Yeah, yeah. No need to bring that up. You know I got you.”
We say our goodbyes and Jones bounds out in good spirits. As soon as the door’s shut I say, “College.”
Philip joins me on the bed. “Yeah?”
“Wednesday.”
“I know.”
“Five.”
“I know.” He leans in to kiss me.
I pull away. “You can still…”
He shakes his head and guides my chin back so his lips can meet mine. “Not today.”
“But…”
“No. I’m not leaving you.”
“Lock me in.” I draw a painful breath. “I’ll sleep.”
“No. I’m staying right here.” He wraps me in his arms.
“I don’t want… you to miss…”
“Shh… stop talking.” He rests his palm against the back of my head, guiding me onto his shoulder. He cradles me against him. “My course can wait. The thing that matters is you’re here and you’re safe.”
He’s treating me like the victim, when I’m really the villain. Doesn’t he realize all of my distress is self-inflicted?
35
Philip
Lying in bed with Brian in my arms is amazing. It’s the antithesis of this morning when I thought he was dead in these arms. He’s so alive here, tangled up with me. When I kiss his neck I can feel his pulse against my lips.
But dinner’s at 6:30 and it’s already nearly six.
“We need to get your security clearance sorted,” I say against his ear. “You okay to come downstairs?”
He pulls away a little, starts to speak and then seems to rethink it. His eyebrows grow close. Then he says, simply, “Your parents first.”
I understand him. Last time he saw my dad, only a few hours ago, Dad was threatening him and treating him like dirt. Now Brian’s in his house.
He’s right, my parents might not want to grant him full clearance… which is exactly why I have to do it before they know.
He lets me lead him down to the basement without argument. Half the floor is a parking lot for our cars, and half is general maintenance and building management, including tech support and security. It always smells like rubber and steam down here.
Our security chief takes Brian’s fingerprints and retina scans without too many questions. Possibly because he saw us holding hands, possibly because Emma already briefed him. She’s a wonder, really. Brian fidgets while his data is entered into the computer. I can see he wants to talk. It must be so frustrating that he can’t.
On our way back upstairs, I hear Emma calling after us. “Mister Rose! I’m glad I caught you.” She comes running up—in heels—and passes Brian the packet with his prescription.
My stomach sinks. I didn’t even ask how much pain Brian’s in. It makes me feel ill to think that I caused it. “Do you need to take them now? Do you need to line your stomach?”
He hesitates before answering. “I can wait.”
“Oh, that reminds me!” I’m glad we ran into Emma. My head’s a mess today. “Could you arrange something for Brian to wear to dinner?”
Brian stares at me. I didn’t mean to be insulting. This is so awkward. I want him to make a good impression—this will be the first time Mom meets him—but I also want him to be comfortable, I don’t want him to feel out of place at our table. I was hoping that Jones would bring something more suitable from his apartment.
Before Emma can respond, Brian says, “Don’t.”
Emma looks between us.
There’s that look he gave me in Central Park. He’s annoyed at me.
“You can’t… ask her now.” I can hear the pain in his voice. He rolls his eyes, frustrated either with me for not getting it or with himself for not being able to articulate what’s wrong. “Devil Wears Prada.”
“You want Prada?” I guess.
Emma laughs and says to Brian. “Oh goodness. No, he’s not asking the impossible. Although,” she checks a silver wristwatch, “with traffic it might be a bit of a thing to get back in time. What size are you?”
Now Brian’s expression transforms from annoyance to panic. I pull him close and check the label on the black shirt he’s wearing. It’s too big for him, so I give Emma a size below. “I’ll try delay dinner as long as possible.”
Emma claps her hands together. “Nothing like a challenge to liven up an evening.” To Brian, who she must think is some sort of semi-mute, she says, “And don’t you worry, Mister Rose. Mister Arrigo is no Miranda Priestly. That’s so sweet.”
I shake my head. “I don’t even know what that means.”
Emma is backing away, still smiling. “It means he’s worried you’re abusing me, Mister Arrigo. I’ll bring the clothes up to your room, shall I?”
“Yes. Please.” I watch her go before turning back to Brian. “You really think that?” I’m a little hurt.
He shrugs. “Dinner is soon.”
“That’s why you’re annoyed? You think I haven’t given her enough time?”
“You made her… drop everything… for me.”
Now that I think about it, I didn’t check if she was free. I’m so used to Emma just agreeing to do whatever I ask. She’s paid to do what we ask, but I know she has a lot on her plate. Maybe I should have thought ahead. I should have asked her to go shopping while she was already out getting the prescription. “I was being a rich dickhead again.”
Brian’s shoulders droop. He bites his lip. Then, to my surprise, he hugs me. I hold him, careful not to press him too tight against me. He feels so fragile. It’s hard to imagine that just two days ago we were having sex rough enough to make my heavy wooden desk shake. I kiss the top of his head. “I like that about you, you know? That you’re not afraid to stand up for others or call me on my shit. I don’t get that a lot. People generally bend over backwards to do what I say.”
“I’ll bend over… for you.”
Seriously? He’s going to make a sex joke now while it’s so difficult for him to talk? “Hush.”
He chuckles and then whimpers.
I was going to go back up to the room with Brian, but I should probably catch Mom as soon as she gets in if I want to smooth things over before dinner.
“You remember where my room is?” I ask as I press the button for the elevator. He blanches, but nods. “I’m going to speak to my parents.” I squeeze his hand to reassure him, even though I could also use reassurance round about now.
“I’ll see you soon,” I say, when the elevator pings open.
He squeezes back and nods again before stepping inside.
I wait in the sitting room, which is the room nearest the front door. I try to relax, listening to the sound of traffic and imagining that I’m somewhere warm with a beach.
I’m not sure how much time has passed when I hear the door and my mother shouting, “Emma!”
I take a deep steading breath and head out into the hall. Mom is already pulling off her heels when she spots me. “Philip, darling, I thought you were at your restaurant tonight?”
“I have the night off.”
She doesn’t mention the theft, so I have to assume Dad elected not to share that with her yet.
She hobbles up to me in one shoe and kisses my cheek, then stoops to take it off. She’s in a white designer dress, no doubt more expensive than some wedding gowns, even though her tea was with a charity.
“I’d like to talk to you about something, before dinner if possible,” I say.
“Oh does it have to be now? I’ve had the longest day.”
She has no idea. “I’m afraid it can’t wait.”
“Emma! Where has she gone off to?”
“I sent her on an errand.”
She quirks a single slender eyebrow at me and then hands me her shoes. “In that case, come.” She heads into the sitting room on stockinged feet and I follow. “What is Hristina serving tonight, do you know?
I wanted to make certain she doesn’t serve fish. I’ve just had fish. It was so unbelievably dry. They must fire their caterer. A disaster.” She waves a hand as she flops into the embroidered armchair. She frowns at the coffee table as if she was expecting something to be there that isn’t.
“I’ll go to the kitchen now and find out. I’ll bring you your tea while I’m at it.”
But before I can make my escape, one of the new serving girls comes in with a tray. It’s shaking and she’s spilled enough tea to soak the napkin. I set down the shoes, take the tray from her and give her what I hope is a reassuring smile. She blushes furiously. “Thanks, can you find out what we’re having for dinner please?”
She nods rapidly and practically flees.
“I honestly don’t know why they’re so afraid of me,” Mom comments.
“I can’t imagine.” I set the tray down and she notices the spill.
“Oh for heaven’s sake! What does it take to find good help?”
“Talking of dinner…” I lift the delicate teacup and blot the bottom with a dry corner of the napkin before handing it to her, “I’ve invited a guest to join us.”
“You’ve invited Chase?” she guesses.
“No! Why would it be Chase?”
She sips her tea and pulls a face. “Oh darling, you don’t think it’s been long enough now?”
“Long enough?” I need to keep my temper. For Brian’s sake, it’s very important that I keep my temper, but her question is so close to Chase’s own that it burns like acid. “This isn’t a temporary hiatus, Mom. We broke up.”
“Yes, and he was very nasty about the whole thing. But you loved him so dearly. I remember the way you’d look at him. It would have been the wedding of the season.”
At the time, she kept using the word ‘progressive’, but I was too worried about my relationship to feel annoyed by it. We would have had magazine features, maybe even internationally, showing just how progressive the Arrigos were letting their son marry a man. A rich, beautiful man.
He was the one who pulled me out of the closet. When I first told Mom that I was madly in love with a supermodel who happened to be male, Mom was devastated. She and Dad had always planned for me to fall in love with and marry Jones and finding out I was gay brought all that crashing down. She even suggested I marry Jones and enjoy my perversion on the side. But she must have spoken to some friends or read the news or something because she eventually came round to how good it looked for her to support her gay son. Back then I was relieved, ecstatic. I was so grateful that she supported my relationship. I was even more grateful when she supported the wedding. But the time for her to support Chase has long passed.
“It’s not Chase,” I repeat, sitting opposite her. “Actually, it’s Brian. The man I told you about. The small-town boy.”
Just then, the front door goes again and I hear father’s gruff baritone. “Philip! You say he’s here? Philip!” He comes striding into the room and pulls up short when he sees me.
I stand respectfully, my heartbeat rocketing. He drops his head into his hand and massages his temples. “You’d better have a damned good explanation.”
“Why, Philip, what in the world happened?” Mom asks, setting down her cup. I know she’s not asking me, she’s asking Philip Senior.
“Fourteen thousand dollars at Mount Sinai West hospital is what’s happened. On his credit card.”
Oh shit. “You’re still tracking my spending?”
“Do you have any idea how worried I was?”
“If you weren’t tracking my spending, I would have had a chance to explain.”
He stalks closer, hands curled into fists. “You don’t have the higher ground here, son. Do you even comprehend how much money that is?”
Aaaand this is why I had to lie to them about college. This is also why I work at The Spindle to be able to pay those fees cash.
“Yes,” I say, holding my chin high. “It’s money that we can afford and Brian cannot.”
“Brian?” Mom’s still looking up at us in confusion or concern, maybe a mix of both. “Your young man?”
Father’s gaze is flame. His jaw is locked. This is not how I’d hoped this conversation would go, but now I don’t see another way to approach things. “Yes, my young man. We erroneously accused him of theft this morning. He hurt himself. He needed an ambulance and treatment in hospital.” I look at Mom, whose eyes are saucer-wide. “This is what I wanted to talk to you about. He’s going to stay with me while he recovers.”
I make it a statement, not a question.
“He damn well isn’t!” Dad booms. “That man is an ex-con, a thief—”
“He’s not a thief!”
“He was in jail for theft, Philip.”
My pulse is racing so hard that I almost don’t hear Mom’s shocked intake of breath.
I didn’t know what Brian was in jail for. I didn’t ask. I thought maybe possession. I knew it had to be something minor because he only had to serve a year. My mouth is dry. This conversation has spiraled so far out of my control, I have no idea how I can possibly rescue it. But I have to try, because if I don’t I won’t be able to protect Brian.
“He was a heroin addict.” I feel like I’m being dunked in ice water. It’s not my place to tell, but I have no choice. “Addicts steal to get money for a hit. That’s a known thing.”
“And you have invited this thief and addict into our home?” My mother asks.
“He’s clean. At least, he was.”
“Was?” Father asks. Then seems to realize. “You said he hurt himself.”
Neither of my parents are stupid. Unfortunately. I bow my head. “Please, give him a chance.”
My father addresses my mom directly. “Philip’s restaurant was robbed last night. The security cameras caught this Brian in the act—”
“No, they didn’t. Brian couldn’t have taken the money.”
“You said he hurt himself. You mean that he used drugs, don’t you? Did he overdose? Where did he get the money, hmm? If you’re so convinced he’s innocent?”
“He got the money from the wages I’ve been paying him. He is innocent. I told you who did it.”
“Her record was clean. You are clearly blinded by…” he waves his hands. He’s never been entirely comfortable with my sexuality.
“Lust? No, father. You’re the one who’s blinded by prejudice. And if you make him leave this house tonight, I will leave with him and I will not return.”
Mom gasps and I know I’ve made a mistake. This was supposed to be a casual fling, that was the only way they’d approve. But now any chance of approval is long gone anyway. When the lies fail, there’s nothing left but the truth. Still, my throat tightens painfully. My parents are clever, and they’re also untouchable. I don’t know if they’d go as far as hurting him to protect their wealth, but I’m not prepared to find out.
“Please?” I ask her as earnestly as I can. “Please, just let me keep him here until he is well.” I have this vision of myself from the outside and I loathe everything about it. I’m not asking for a puppy, I’m asking to help the man I love. “When he’s well again, if you want, I will break things off with him. I just need to know that he’s safe.”
She closes her eyes and pinches the bridge of her nose. “Honestly, Philip, don’t you think you’re a little old for a rebellious phase?”
“I can’t believe what I’m hearing,” my father grouses. “How long until he’s well? You don’t think, once he experiences our life, he will want some for himself? Even if this man doesn’t steal from us to feed his habit, and I am unconvinced this will be the case, even if he does not steal from us, how would you determine when he was well? Surely, with that hospital bill, he should be well enough to go home, or are you going to tell me he doesn’t have a home?”
“He has a home.” The anger is beating so hard in my veins that I’m struggling to keep my composure.
“Your father raises a valid point, darling,” Mom says. �
��If this man is feeling unwell, it is his own doing and not at all our responsibility.”
I turn on her. I never talk back to her, but at this point I can’t control myself. “He’s feeling unwell because I broke his ribs. I broke him while I was trying to resuscitate him. He’s feeling unwell because he died today. He died in my arms.” Even though I’m trying to be strong and angry, my eyes fill. It’s the first time I’ve said that out loud, even though I’ve thought it so many times and it hurts, the memory of how I found him hurts so much. I brush away the tears in frustration.
Someone clears their throat at the living room door and I turn to see Brian standing there, dressed for dinner.
36
Brian
I ride the elevator up to the 7th floor, hugging myself to try keep from shaking. Cold sweat is coating my skin and my stomach is a mess of nerves and withdrawal. I deserve this. I did this to myself.
I examine the pills that Emma got for me. I know they’ll bring relief, but they’ll also make me relaxed and sleepy, which is not what I want if I’m going to meet Philip’s folks. His father already hates me. Cynthia said his mother calls the shots. I have to make a good impression with her.
Who am I kidding? They’re going to kick me out. If I was in their position, as protective of their son and their reputation as they clearly are, I would throw me out. It’s almost not worth trying.
Except, Philip wants me to try. He even asked Emma to get me nice new clothes. Even she’s going to try for me.
Instead of heading for Philip’s room, I go looking for a shower. A hot shower will get rid of the sweat and the stench of the hospital, and ease my aching shivery muscles.
I guess it will be the room beside Philip’s, but that door opens into a private library. It’s about half the size of the bedroom with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and the same large windows sending streaks of sunlight across the wooden floor. I hover a moment, looking over the titles. He has a shelf of comics, but most of the books are non-fiction. History seems to be a favorite subject, followed by social theories. I spot The Gay Revolution by Lillian Faderman, The Men With the Pink Triangle by Heinz Heger, Benign Bigotry: The Psychology of Subtle Prejudice by Kristin J. Anderson alongside Empire City: New York through the Centuries edited by Kenneth T. Jackson and David Dunbar, and Eichmann in Jerusalem: A Report on the Banality of Evil by Hannah Arendt.
