Chapter Text
Alright, I’ll admit it: I’m not psyched about the idea of having a roommate again. I’ve gotten used to living on my own. I’m a writer, and I work at home, which means that when I find my groove, I spend every waking second writing while everything else goes to hell in a hand basket. Dishes don’t get washed. Clothes don’t get hung up. The recycling bin overflows with empty wine bottles. Vegetables rot in the refrigerator, and fruit flies erupt from moldy tangerines like bats from Carlsbad Caverns at sunset. I only pick up when I’m blocked, which means cleanliness is a sure sign that even the smallest provocation will make me psychotic. Seriously. No joke. I’m just one pill away from another DSM IV disorder even in the best of times.
Now that Daphne’s “oldest bestest friend” is coming to live with me, I’m going to have to keep things tidy even when I’m nearing Barbara Cartland-like prolificacy. And I’m also going to have to shop regularly so I won’t be tempted to eat his food. But Daphne let me crash with her during one of My Bad Times, so I owe her a favor. I don’t like being in debt to anyone – not even one of my closest friends – so I’m eager to clear the accounts. Even if it means I’ll be sharing utensils and highly contagious stomach viruses with an artist for who the hell knows how long. Besides two lawyers, the combination of a writer and an artist in a small apartment is the worst co-habitation arrangement known to man. We’ll always be freaking out, drinking, bribing our muses, whining, threatening to kill ourselves over rejection letters, worrying about where our next rent check will come from, and considering careers as dental hygienists or pole dancers or both.
Good times.
Okay, Justin’s cute. It’s a known scientific fact that cute people are more tolerable than non-cute people – cuteness (especially of the blond, blue-eyed, perky-nosed variety) is a highly effective social lubricant. He’s like pink Betty Crocker frosting; I want to put on pajamas, curl up in front of the T.V. and eat a container of him. And it’s a good thing he’s cute because he’s also noisy, entitled, histrionic, overly fond of ultimatums, and a major asshole before he’s had his morning coffee. If he isn’t keeping me awake having orgiastic phone sex with the Mystery Boyfriend, he’s keeping me awake with his porn and crappy 90s rave music. I swear to God, if I hear Rage Against The Machine one more time, I will use his C.D.s to scare away the yowling alley cats . . . and, yes, the pigeons too. Have you ever tried to write with a cacophony of coos outside your window? No? Then don’t judge me, bro. Ditto re: the tenth repeat of “Bullet in the Head.” He’s too blond, blue-eyed and perky-nosed to be a convincing gangsta.
He’s also the most slovenly gay guy I’ve ever met. He lives in t-shirts, sweatpants or pajama bottoms and shirts that belong to the M.B., who must be significantly taller than him because when Justin wears them, he looks like a little boy trying on his daddy’s clothes. When I ask when I’m going to get to meet the M.B., he says annoying things like “never” and “in your dreams.” When I ask him why, he tells me that the M.B. doesn’t like the East Village. WTF? Who doesn’t like the East Village? It’s like hating puppies and cupcakes – i.e. just wrong.
“So he’s more West Village?”
Justin shakes his head. His mouth is stuffed with Coco Puffs even though it’s nine at night. “TriBeca,” he says, spraying chocolaty goo. “Maybe midtown.”
“Not SoHo?”
“Too trendy.”
“Not the Upper East Side?”
“Too many hedge fund managers.”
“What about Chelsea?”
“Too many posers.”
“Harlem?”
“Too gritty.”
“Well, then what about Brooklyn?”
He just looks at me, frozen mid-chew, as though I’d spoken in one of those African click languages.
“Brooklyn?” he asks disbelievingly. “Have you been in Brooklyn lately? There’s barely room on the sidewalks with all the strollers and rescue dogs in the way.”
“So, too family oriented, huh? But it’s not like only heteros live there – I always see a million gay and lesbian families when I visit my friends, Pooka and Sam.”
“Exactly,” Justin says, raising the bowl to his mouth and slurping down the leftover milk. “And who names their kid ‘Pooka’?” he adds, wiping his mouth on his sleeve.
“Former hippies with excessive body hair and lazy grooming habits. By the way, I’ve been meaning to ask how old you are, and I won’t believe you if you say anything greater than ten.”
He rolls his eyes, and then his cell phone rings. He reads the caller I.D. before he answers and then trots to his bedroom, closes the door and proceeds to whisper like I used to do when a boyfriend called my parents’ house when I was a teenager.
Like I said, he’s cute in the kind of way that a baby hedgehog is cute. Btw, cute or not, you can catch a deadly form of salmonella from the little bastards. True fact.
Justin gets a million jobs at various dining establishments and ends up with no time to work on his paintings (one of which is taking up half the living room). He complains about this constantly.
“How do artists succeed in New York if their expenses are so high they have to work 24/7 at shitty menial jobs?”
I just look at him. “I’ve been here three years, and in that time I’ve had at least twenty-four shitty menial jobs. Do you see stacks of my latest best seller at Borders?”
“Three years,” he says mournfully. “I don’t have three years.”
“You’re not even twenty-five. What do you mean you don’t have three years? What’d you think was going to happen? That you’d swoop into New York, wow the critics, make a million dollars and fly back to Pittsburgh?”
“Something like that,” he says in a little voice that makes me feel like an asshole.
“Christ, what’s the rush? Shit takes time. Relax and enjoy the wild ride of trying to find your gold at the end of the rainbow in the Big City.”
“The longer it takes me to make it here, the longer it’ll be before I can go back home. I want to be home. I don’t want to be here. All the gallery owners are assholes. Other artists are assholes. The critics are assholes, and my friend, Lindsay, was kind of an asshole to make me believe there was more for me here than in Pittsburgh.”
I sigh. “So this is about the M.B., huh?”
He shrugs. Of course it is. He looks miserable. I decide to throw him a rare bone.
“He must be pretty special if he can rival the City That Never Sleeps.”
He lifts his head and smiles at me. “Yeah,” he says. “He is.”
The next day he quits two of his part time jobs and by the end of the week the Painting That Ate The Living Room is finished.
The thing about which Daphne failed to adequately inform me is that Justin is madly in love with a jerk. It happens, I know. At least 90 percent of my friends have married or otherwise coupled-up with jerks. I know jerks. Heck, I’ve even dated a few. And, yes, it’s true that jerks come in many different flavors: There’re cheating jerks, selfish jerks, newly Born Again jerks, jerks with mother issues, jerks with father issues, jerks who give you crabs, and, of course, Republicans. But the M.B. is a newly discovered species of jerk. He’s like one of those creepy beetles on a remote island that no one’s ever seen before. Which, of course, makes him both fascinating and repulsive. Perhaps that’s the allure.
Also, like all my Friends With Jerks, Justin waxes poetic about, dreams unrealistic dreams about, and bitches about the M.B. way too much. He can tell me he’s had The Best Day Ever and then emerge from his bedroom looking suicidal after talking with the M.B. Alternatively, he can me tell he’s had The Worst Day Ever and then emerge from his bedroom after talking to the M.B. glowing radiantly and eager to do his dishes instead of leaving them for me for a change.
Also, like all of my Friends With Jerks, Justin makes excuses for the M.B. He’s “going through a rough patch.” He’s “mercurial.” He’s “damaged.” He’s “afraid to let himself get close to someone.” He “means well.” He’s “never felt safe enough to express his real feelings." He's "complicated," and then there's my favorite: “It’s not all his fault, it’s mine too.”
I have the same conversation with Justin that I’ve had with virtually every girlfriend I’ve had over the years:
“Can’t you see he’s making you miserable? You’re suffering from Stockholm Syndrome. Look, let me help you change your locks/apply for a restraining order/hold the phone book so the ass-kicking you’ll give him won’t leave bruises.
He doesn’t like our fireside chats and swears convincingly that he will never try to talk to me about the M.B. again only to break his oath the next day because he needs to rave to someone about the crumb of affection that the M.B. had behooved to throw him.
“He’s really not as bad as all that,” Daphne says. “He’s done so much for Justin. He’s protected him and cared for him and helped him out at every turn. Don’t be so judgmental just because he’s got a few flaws.”
A few flaws. Like periodically disappearing off the face of the earth for days for no reason he cares to disclose to anyone, including his boyfriend?
“He’s like a really shitty father,” I say to Justin. “The kind that goes on week-long drinking binges, spending his paychecks on booze and abandoning his family with no warning.”
Justin looks at me and frowns. He’s thinking. “That’s the perfect analogy,” he says. “It really is.”
Go me.
“Which means you’re going to call him on his shit?”
“Which means I can see why people like your writing. You’re very observant.”
I throw up my hands. The compliment, of course, is sweet, but the failure to address the underlying issue is just fucking annoying.
“You and he will get along great,” he says. “You have similar senses of humor.”
Backhanded compliment or shameless ploy to get me to drink the M.B. Kool-Aid? You decide.
They must’ve had an even bigger fight than usual because the M.B. suddenly shows up and leans on the doorbell like the pizza delivery guy. Then he presses the intercom and yells, “Justin, get your ass down here right now!”
“Sounds like a real charmer,” I say as Justin grabs his coat and shoots out of the apartment like a NASA rocket. I put “Friends” on mute so I can hear what they’re shouting at each other about all the way up the five flights of stairs. Hey, give me a break! I’m a writer. Any writer worth her salt is a shameless eavesdropping voyeur.
“Don’t you ever hang up on me again!”
“Then don’t ever call me a spoiled little rich kid!”
“Well, you called me a climber!”
“It was a joke! Why do you always have to take everything I say so literally?”
“Because you’re a twat! How am I supposed to know whether you’re being sarcastic . . .”
“Says the king of sarcasm! Jesus, Brian, you can dish it out, but you sure can’t eat it!”
Suddenly they come bursting through the door like a Wile E. Coyote/Road Runner tornado. They’re both red-faced and panting and trying to kill each other with their glares.
I stand up. “Hey, nice to finally meet the M.B. I’m . . .”
He doesn’t even look at me. I could be the lava lamp on the coffee table for all he cares.
“Listen, Sunshine. You’re the one constantly telling me that I make everything too complicated. That I shouldn’t read so much into every little thing you say . . .”
“Well, it’s true . . .”
“God, just shut the fuck up, will you? I didn’t come all the way here to play ‘yes, you did, no, I didn’t’.”
“Then why did you come here?”
The M.B.’s only response is to grab Justin’s chin and proceed to chew his face off. I’ve heard of Zombies, but I thought they only existed in fiction. Silly me.
Then they're off to Justin’s bedroom before I can renew my attempt to appear on the M.B.’s radar. For several minutes I can’t tell if they’re fucking or fighting. There’s a lot of thumping and growling going on. It goes on forever. I call Daphne.
“Dude. WTF?”
“So you finally met Brian did you?” The bitch is laughing. “Flatter his wit and wait on him, and he might ask your name.”
“You don’t understand. He showed up here all menacing like some kind of hot guy Hulk. He and Justin screamed at each other, and now they’re either fighting to the death or making ass babies. I can’t tell. It’s disconcerting.”
“Ass babies or not, don’t mention babies around Brian. It’s a sore subject. Oh, and don’t mention Rockport shoes, monogamy, suburbia, Costco, fruit daiquiris, chocolate martinis, cuddling, puppies, violins, cheap furniture, and anything involving mayonnaise.”
“Well, that pretty much leaves us nothing to discuss other than why is he a crazy person who wants to kill my baby hedgehog?”
“I’m not even going to ask.”
I sigh. “Seriously. What if Justin’s bed falls through the floor? You’ve seen this place. You know the walls are made out of moldy cardboard.”
She laughs again. “Don’t worry. They’ll be fine. They’ve had lots of practice.”
“Clearly.”
“You do have to admit he’s gorgeous though. Cover his mouth with duct tape, and you’ll look forward to his visits. He’s not easy to listen to, but he’s definitely easy on the eyes.”
“Now I know why MacGyer always said that duct tape has 101 uses. Will it help if I pound on the door and tell them to keep it down? I have a gynecologist appointment at noon tomorrow.”
“Noon counts as early?”
“It does when you’re a writer with a penchant for drinking strong coffee and cheap wine – at the same time, that is.”
“Bad habit. Don’t corrupt Justin.”
“I’m not even going to dignify that comment with a response. If you were here right now, you’d know why that’s complete B.S. Whatever’s going on in there, it certainly doesn’t sound like the tender coupling of virgins.”
“True, but he’s innocent in so many other ways.”
“Uh-huh. I’ll take your word for it despite the sheer lack of evidence. Good thing the old lady upstairs is a hoarder and can’t hear anything through the piles of shit in her apartment. And good thing our next door neighbor is an illegal immigrant. He keeps a low profile.”
“Listen, Derek’s here,” she says. “I gotta go. Don’t worry, okay? It’s not like Brian is going to move in with you guys. My bet is that after he’s gotten off a few times, he’ll take a look around and realize what a shithole you live in, and then he’ll be out of there like a bat out of hell.”
“In other words, he’ll leave in the same shape he arrived in.”
She laughed. “Bye-bye, Moira. You’ll live. I have faith in your survival skills. You’ll be the only human keeping the Twinkies and cockroaches company after the Apocalypse.”
“Gee. I don’t know whether to feel insulted or flattered. Nighty-night, Daffy.”
It turns out that Daphne was right (as always). The M.B. leaves as abruptly as he’d arrived. When he’s gone, I ask Justin what they’d been fighting about. He frowns as though I’d presented him a difficult algebra problem. “I can’t remember,” he says and then grins that blinding grin. “But whatever it is, we’ll have to do it again. The make-up sex was more than worth it.”
“Not if you want to live within a mile radius of me,” I say. “Next time get a hotel room. You guys even managed to scare that giant rat I’ve seen every night for three years. He didn’t stick a whisker out of whatever the fuck hole he lives in.”
Justin laughs the same insouciant laugh Daphne had the night before, but then winces when he flops onto the couch.
“My ass hurts,” he says.
“Thanks for sharing,” I reply.
“No problem. Daphne likes to hear the details too.”
“I was kidding.”
He just looks at me and grins. “No, you’re not.”
I glare at him and go back to bed.
Last I knew (although given the amount of cheap wine I’ve been drinking I’d get a second opinion if I were you), Justin isn’t black. Or six feet tall. Or speaks with a Jamaican accent. But there’s the living proof right in front of me wearing one of Justin’s towels around his waist and brushing his teeth with Justin’s toothbrush. Jesus, I need a new prescription – for my contact lenses, I mean, not my bipolar muesli mix.
“Hi, mawn,” Black Justin says.
“The name’s Moira. By the way, have you seen a cute little blond twink running around? He still owes me last month’s rent.”
Black Justin stares at me. It’s awkward.
“Sooooooooo,” I say later after Black Justin left and Blond Justin flopped down on the couch. “How’s Heathcliff going to feel about your new fuck buddy?”
He makes a face. “Heathcliff? Does that mean I’m Cathy because I am not Cathy. Cathy is unstable and histrionic . . .”
“Which is why she’s Heathcliff’s soul mate because he's unstable and histrionic too . . .”
“Two crazy people shouldn’t end up together . . .”
Shit. If that’s true, I need to break up with that guy I met in line at the pharmacy.
“. . . Brian is the crazy one. He needs someone who's grounded to look after him.”
“But what about you? Dude’s within spitting distance of a restraining order. How many times has he shown up here threatening to huff and puff and blow the building down if you don’t show yourself in five seconds?”
“It’s because he loves me. He can’t help it.”
How sweet.
“Okay,” I say. I pour myself a mug and flop down beside him, causing him to spill his coffee down his front.
“Thanks a lot.”
“Anytime. Stop trying to distract me. Do I have to worry about Heathcliff firebombing the place? I don’t know about you, but I’m not particularly fond of the smell of napalm in the morning.”
He looks at me with genuine bafflement. “What are you talking about?”
“Hello! Hot black guy, and don’t try to tell me he’s an old friend who needed to crash on your floor.”
Justin still doesn’t look enlightened.
“That guy you ran into earlier?”
“‘That guy’? Do you mean to tell me you don’t even know his name?”
“Not important, the only information I cared about was the size of his dick.”
“Nice. Sounds like true love. Heathcliff is going to freak the fuck out if he learns you’re sleeping with other guys. I don’t want to end up as collateral damage.”
To my astonishment, he starts laughing as though I’m Dave Chappell. “What’s so funny? You may think he’s adorable, but Heathcliff scares the shit out of me. Aren’t you worried you’re going to wake up one of these days to find a horse head in your bed?”
“Ew. Who wants to fuck a horse?”
I sigh. Perhaps reason can prevail. “Look, seriously, I’m worried about you. You may use up my shampoo and encroach on my side of the fridge, but you’re still something that resembles a friend. Heathcliff will go postal. He’s already partially unhinged. You piss him off by refusing to let him pay for our garbage pick-up; what the hell do you think will happen when he finds out you’re fucking other guys?”
“The reason I won’t let him pay for our garbage – or anything else for that matter – is that he’s always been there paying for everything. He’s always helped me out. I came here to prove to myself I can make it on my own. I don’t want his help, and he knows it, so I get really pissed off when he offers, which, in turn, makes him really pissed off.”
I’m getting frustrated. I’m beginning to see why Heathcliff calls Justin a twat almost as often as he calls him sunshine. “Look,” I snap. “I don’t care about the fucking garbage or your Quest for Manhood and Freedom. What I care about is that he’ll find out you fuck other people . . .”
He scoffs and waves his hand at me dismissively. “He fucks other people too – always has, always will.”
I gape at him. Even Pooka and Sam swing together, and they’re about as independent as two spouses can be.
“Rrrright. So you’re just fine with Heathcliff fucking around, and he’s just fine with you fucking around. Where did you register? Crate and Barrel or Divorces ‘R’ Us?”
Rather than earning me a giggle, Justin glares at me. Sensitive subject or flatulence? After all, I have been feeling rather gassy lately.
“Prada and Pottery Barn, if you really have to know.”
I stand up and carry my empty mug into the “kitchen” which is really just part of the living room, which, itself, is really the entire fucking place. Except, that is, for our matchbox-sized bathroom and bedrooms, which are smaller than most of SoHo’s lofts’ walk-in closets. But then again, you have to be poor and underfed for years if you want to be a writer (or an artist). It’s in the “How To Die A Talented Pauper Handbook,” chapter one, after the part about mooching off friends for a living.
Prada? Who registers with Prada?
“You and Heathcliff were never engaged. Daphne’s tried to convince me otherwise, but I am neither stupid nor crazy enough to believe her.”
“Fine, don’t believe me,” he grumbles.
“Jesus, if it really is true, all I can say it that you dodged a major bullet. Dude’s got 'Husband from Hell' written all over him. Yeah, he’s hot and all, but what good is hot when he’s locked you in the basement and is feeding you bread and water through a slat in the door?”
He rolls his eyes. “Brian lives in a loft; he doesn’t have a basement.”
Alright, I give up.
“I just don’t want to end up in the middle. Last I knew, this building was called ‘Hudson Heights,’ not ‘Wuthering Heights.’ I’ve had more than enough drama in my life, and I don’t need any more.”
He stands up and comes over to put his arm around my shoulders.
“Heathcliff’s not going to be angry that I fuck other guys. He’s a hypocritical shit if he is. Stop worrying, and enjoy the hot guys I bring home. I don’t beer goggle; all the tricks I pick up will be gorgeous, I promise.”
Great. More hot gay guys. Just what a horny heterosexual girl needs. He kisses me on the cheek. He’s never kissed me on the cheek before. I try not to be mollified.
It doesn’t work.
It turns out that Justin was wrong. Heathcliff is a hypocritical shit.
The little twat isn’t home when I hear the buzzer. It goes on and on and on. I know I didn't order Chinese food so the only explanation is that I'm about to get a social call from hell.
“Justin’s not here,” I say over the intercom, which is a polite way of saying “Go the fuck away, you crazy person, before I call the police.”
I don’t know what I’d expected to hear, but it certainly wasn’t nothing at all.
“Are you still there?” I ask after a minute.
“Yeah,” he says.
It’s Manhattan in February out there, and Heathcliff had crawled here over the blasted heath otherwise known as Pennsylvania. He may be a domestic incident waiting to happen, but he’s still a (mighty fine looking) man. I couldn’t let him curl up on the front steps and die of hypothermia like the fucking Matchstick Girl.
“Want to come up?”
“Yeah.”
“Promise not to go all bunny-boiler on me?”
He laughs, which is a mark in his favor. Anyone who doesn’t remember Glenn Close in “A Fatal Attraction” is either culturally illiterate or born sometime after 1980. I let him in.
He looks like shit – well, at least as much like shit as he’s capable of looking. He’s also obviously sobering up after a marathon binge.
“Hair of the dog?” I ask from the “kitchen.”
“Whisky if you have it,” he says. “Otherwise gin.”
“Whisky’s not a problem – I spent a year fucking my married professor at Dublin University. Junior year abroad and all that. But gin’s out of the question. Ever get nose-puking drunk? If you have, then you know what I’m talking about.”
“Who hasn’t got nose-puking drunk?” he asks, peeling off his soaked jacket and hanging it on the doorknob. “I spent my adolescence nose-puking drunk.”
“Then you’ll appreciate the horror when I tell you my gin that night was mixed with bitter lemon. Burned my nasal passages. Couldn’t smell a damn thing for a week.”
He laughs and accepts the glass I hand him. He throws it back, and I pour him another couple fingers.
“I’m fucking wet,” he says as though he’s only just noticed he’s dripping all over the matted seventies brown and yellow shag carpet. At least, I think it’s brown and yellow. Once upon a time it might’ve just been yellow, but to survive life as a starving liberal arts grad in Alphabet City you had to block such questions from your mind or go running back, screaming, to the Kansas you came from.
“I’m sure there’s something in Justin’s closet you can wear. You’re bigger than him, but then again he wears sweatpants large enough to fit a village in.”
He laughs again. He has a nice smile. When it’s genuine, that is. When it’s not, it looks like a grin on a wolf.
He goes to Justin’s room and changes into sweatpants and one of his own shirts that Justin must’ve used while he was painting because it’s splattered with blues and greens. Justin’s favorite colors.
He sits down on the lumpy couch and stares into the refilled glass I gave him. He looks more miserable than menacing.
“Do you know where he is?”
I open a beer and sit down beside him. “Nope. Haven’t seen him since yesterday.”
He nods, and then after a minute, he speaks. “I called him on a friend's cell ‘cause I’d left mine at the office by mistake. He must’ve not recognized the number. He answered and snapped that he was busy, call back later. I could hear gay club music in the background; trust me, I know gay club music when I hear it. He sounded breathless. I knew he was getting his cock sucked.” He scrubs his face, making his damp hair stick up. “I shouldn’t fucking care,” he says. “In fact, I should be proud of him. He’s fucking. He’s getting off. He’s having fun. I do it . . . well, I used to do it all the time, myself, even when we were living together. It’s what I did. It’s what fags should do. Monogamy’s a joke. It’s a fucking trap that only straight people should fall into, not queers.”
He pauses to look at me. “No offense,” he says.
“None taken. More?” I flick his glass.
“Yeah, sure, why not?” he says.
I just hand him the bottle. He laughs again. He has a nice laugh. He should laugh more often.
Again, he’s silent for a while, but after a couple swigs he continues. “It makes me fucking crazy. Knowing he’s fucking someone else. And I know I’m hypocrite. Neither you nor he needs to tell me that. It’s just . . .”
He puts the bottle on the floor and covers his face with his hands.
“It’s just what?” I find myself asking.
“It’s just that it’s him. We’re different that way. He falls in love. I don’t . . . or at least I didn’t, and I’m sure as hell not going to again. But he’s fallen in love with someone else before, and he’s going to do it again. Shit, he’s only 22! Of course, there’re going to be other men. He’s a romantic. He gets smitten and seduced. Fucking is never just fucking for him, no matter what he says.”
I place a (very) tentative hand on his shoulder. “He loves you,” I say. “I know he does. I see him every day. I know. He doesn’t even ask the guys’ names. He doesn’t seem to care. I’ll admit it doesn’t sit well with me, but then again, I’m just a sappy straight girl, right?”
He lifts his head and his lips hint at another smile, but he’s frowning and exhausted . . . and obviously afraid.
“I know I should hope that he finds someone – someone younger, someone more like him – but the thought makes me sick. I’m tired. I don’t feel young anymore. I don’t know what I’ll do if he leaves me.”
He looks at me as though I’m someone who can assure him that it would never happen, that Justin would never leave him, but I can’t. Justin is just a roommate. We’ve only barely stuck our toes across the border between acquaintances and friends. Yes, I know he loves “Seinfeld” and is ridiculously decorous in his table manners even when he’s eating Ramen Noodles. I even know he wears socks to bed (long story). But I don’t know – for sure, that is – if he’s going to stay with a man more than twelve years his senior for the rest of his life. Gorgeous and rich only goes so far – especially when one of the two has an expiration date.
Suddenly, he stands up as though he’s made some kind of momentous decision. Given how much he’s had to drink, whatever that decision is cannot possibly be a good one. I stand up too.
“I’m going home,” he announces. “Don’t tell him I was here.”
Fuck. This was exactly the situation I’d wanted to avoid. The go-between, the fake alibi witness. I’ve done enough lying and manipulating to know nothing good ever comes of it. Ever.
“Sorry, no can do,” I say.
He looks at me with an expression that clearly translates into “I’m not used to people saying ‘no’ to me.” I stand my ground.
“So, what you’re saying is that when he comes home – whenever the fuck that’ll be – you’re going to tell him that I was here sniveling like a girl into a sour apple martini?”
“Whoa,” I say, suddenly angry and remembering this was Heathcliff I was dealing with, not John Boy Walton. “I like sour apple martinis. Don’t knock 'em before you’ve tried 'em.”
He stares at me. There’s clearly some kind of struggle taking place in his head, but whatever it is, it results in a reprieve for me.
“Fair enough,” he says. “Besides, Justin should know just how much of a head case I’ve become since he left. It’s only fair. I used to be the strong one. I’m not anymore. Tell him I was here and that I left and that I hope he finds what he's looking for.”
Great.
“Anything else you want me to tell him? His hamster died? His mom’s being eaten alive by flesh-eating bacteria?”
He rolls his eyes in something that looks like indulgent amusement. “Forget the hamster,” he says, “but tell him I took his favorite pair of sweatpants, and he won’t get them back unless he comes to Pittsburgh and strips them off me.”
“Fair enough,” I say.
He puts on his jacket and opens the door, but before he leaves, I go over to him and give him a hug. I’ve known that dark place at the end of a long fall, and I can tell he's near his own.
“Drive safely, Heathcliff,” I say. I hand him one of my business cards. “Call me when you get home.”
He nods, and then he's gone.
