Reverberations
Chapter 20
Part 2
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Brian
To be honest I’m fucking exhausted by the time we finally get out of that bed.
But at the same time I feel … like I could conquer the world.
It’s fucking amazing.
We talk about going out to get something to eat, but then somehow that turns
into a discussion on where we can have our “house announcement” dinner. So
instead we order more room service and start researching restaurants. I’ve got
an idea of where we might go, but the first place I think of doesn’t have any
private rooms, and that’s really what we want, so we take a while to pick
somewhere.
I want to go to Ernie Vallozzi's because, although the food is carb loaded, it’s
excellent, and they have a great wine list. But when I suggest it, Justin just
stares at me.
“You want to take Deb to an Italian restaurant?” he says. “And have her
talking all night about how it’s not as good as her recipe? I so don’t think
so.”
I have to admit that he’s right about that, and although I fight against it, I
can’t help but notice that he keeps coming back to one particular site. It’s out
in the suburbs and looks like some sort of castle or something - I think it’s
incredibly fucking kitsch - but I’m the guy who’s buying a fucking mansion, so
what would I know? Anyway, he likes the look of it, so we put that top of the
list. We add a couple of other possibles.
Then, after a bit of a debate, we call Emmett.
We don’t tell him exactly what’s going on, just ask him if he can come to the
loft tomorrow night. And swear him to secrecy. Justin tries telling him that
it’s all very simple, and he shouldn’t get any ideas, but … all the sort of shit
that must have Honeycutt’s ears flapping and his tongue already beginning to
wag. So then I take the phone and tell him that I’ll cut his fucking dick off if
I get back and find everyone gossiping about what Justin and I are up to. I can
hear his little head toss and he does this whole, “Darling, a party planner’s
word is his bond. We have to know how to be very discreet.”
Then I say, real quiet, “Emmett, we need this to be low key. I don’t want him to
have to deal with any more shit right now.”
There’s a slight pause, and then he says, “I understand, Brian. I promise, I
won’t say anything to anyone.”
And by the tone in his voice I know he’s heard and understood me and that I can
count on him.
Now there’s a fucking strange thought.
Before we finish the call, he asks if I’ve spoken to Deb or Michael today. Which
we haven’t. We had the sense to turn all our phones off around about the time we
took ourselves into the bedroom this afternoon. When I tell Emmett no, he goes
very quiet. I feel something sort of squeeze my chest.
“What the fuck’s wrong now?” I bark. “Is Mikey okay?”
“Yes, yes!” he says quickly. “It’s nothing like that. In fact,” he goes on.
“It’s nothing that won’t wait till you get back.”
“Emmett,” I growl.
He sighs. “It’s Ben,” he says. “They’re talking about letting him plead to some
minor charge on the grounds that he was unbearably provoked and it was totally
out of character and … Deb is having fits about it and saying that he shouldn’t
even have been arrested and that she thinks he should go to court and fight it
and … neither Carl nor I can get through to her.”
I sigh.
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Justin
I know that there’s something really bad going on when he pinches the bridge of
his nose and says to Emmett, “I’ll be home tomorrow. I’ll try and talk to her
then. Just don’t let Ben do anything stupid in the meantime.”
There’s silence for a moment while he listens to Emmett and then he says, “Yeah,
well, I’m counting on you.”
Another moment and then he says, very quiet, “Thanks, Emmett. We’ll see you
tomorrow night. Around eight.”
Then he hangs up.
He doesn’t say anything for a moment, then finally he looks up at me.
“It’s Ben,” he says. “Seems like they’re trying to get him off with just a slap
on the wrist, but Deb’s not having any. She thinks he should get a fucking medal
or something.”
Then he says loudly, “Fuck!” and looks like he wants to throw the phone at the
wall.
“So … would he have to go to jail?” I ask. “Is that what she’s upset about?”
He sighs and shrugs. “He’d probably get community service or some shit. Like
Hobbs.”
By the way he says it, I know that he thinks it’s wrong.
Brian, for all that he’s very strong, and very physical, really hates violence.
I mean, he hates it. Especially when it’s someone who’s a lot bigger and
stronger, punching the shit out of someone who’s smaller and weaker. Wonder why
that would be?
Some people with backgrounds like Brian turn into abusers, they keep the cycle
of violence going. Others do the complete opposite and really turn away from it.
That’s Brian. I don’t mean that he’d ever back down from a fight. But I can’t
imagine him ever deliberately physically hurting someone - especially some old
guy half his size.
There isn’t anything I can say, really, so I turn his thoughts back to happier
things by asking him what he wants to do about the tuxes. Should we try to get
at least a partial refund on them?
He just looks at me like I’m crazy.
Then he laughs and shakes his head. “You’ll need one,” he tells me. “When all
important galleries start calling, and you have to attend their fucking
pretentious little do’s. You’ll need a decent tux.”
I nudge him. “Okay, that’s me. What’s your excuse?” I ask.
He grins and says, “I have to be your arm candy.”
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Brian
He giggles when I say that, and that’s it.
Everything else goes out the window, and I dive on him. We haven’t fucked on the
couch yet.
Fuck Ben and his troubles; fuck Deb and Mikey and all their shit.
I have this. And here and now, that’s the only fucking thing that matters.
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Justin
We go for the final fitting of the tuxes. They’re amazing. We both look so
fucking good. I hope there is some big occasion soon so that we can wear them. I
guess we could wear them to the dinner, but that would be a bit over the top and
sort of a waste, really.
Then we get the flight home.
It’s weird.
I mean … I feel like I should be crushed or something …
When we left here on Saturday, we were engaged, we were about to get married.
And now we’re not, and …
I feel amazing. Much better than I did then. I feel like … Like we’re really
working it out, really becoming who we want to be … as a couple. And that’s not
some little faux-hetero ideal. That’s us. Warts and all. He’ll go on tricking
when he feels like it; and I probably will too. And that will be nothing - not
even a blip.
But we’ll be together, and we’ll have a home … a real home together. Somewhere
that Gus can come and stay. Somewhere our friends can come over, hang out.
Somewhere I can paint, and he can work and …
Okay, maybe that’s a bit idealized, because he’ll still be at Kinnetik a lot,
and I’ll have days when I hardly see him and all that stuff.
But that’s life. That’s what a real life together is.
He calls Deb practically as soon as we get off the plane, but I can tell that
doesn’t go well.
So then he calls and arranges to come over and see Gus.
I assume that he’s spoken to Lindsay, but when we get there, there’s just Mel.
Apparently Lindsay’s still at work. Brian gets me to keep an eye on Gus and JR
while he takes Mel aside and speaks to her, and I hear her say, “Stupid cow. If
they give him that sort of deal he should take it. His lawyer must be telling
him that.”
They talk a bit more and then Mel says, “Leave it with me. I’ll try to talk to
her. You’ll just make it worse. She’s pretty pissed with you right now.”
He shrugs, but I can see it hurts. Why the fuck Deb is mad at Brian because her
son in law went crazy and beat the hell out of someone, God knows.
Anyway, we play for a while with Gus, and then head home.
I’d forgotten to take the charger for my cell, so the battery was flat and the
first thing I do is to plug it in. While I’m doing that, Brian hits the play
button on the machine, and goes through the messages.
Stuff from Sydney about what pieces sold.
Rants from Debbie.
A call from Ben to thank Brian again for arranging the lawyer.
A call from Ted about the insurance - apparently today they finally let the
insurance inspectors onto the site.
One from the police saying that they have some leads which they’re following up.
And one from Shana, the Washington Post reporter, asking if I was happy with the
article.
Shit!
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Brian
The article is … fair enough, I suppose. Personally, I’d rather not rehash all
that fucking stuff, but I can see what they’re trying to do and if the end
result is that bastards like Hobbs get put away instead of having their little
wrists slapped and told not to be so naughty, then it will probably be worth it.
It talks about Justin’s art and takes it seriously. Doesn’t make him sound like
some sort of special needs “oh, isn’t it amazing that he can do that” case.
Makes him sound like a serious young artist. Even takes a swipe at those
dickless wonders in Hollywood.
So I guess it’s okay.
Once we’ve skimmed through it he gets on the phone to his Mommy and tells her.
Then he calls Sydney who already knows, and is very happy -naturally, since his
gallery gets a mention. He asks if he should let Deb know and I just stare at
him, so he calls her. She seems to give him a hard time at first but then I hear
her shrieks of “Sunshine!” so that’s okay.
I call Kinnetik to double check that Cynthia has everything under control with
the Brown account, and may just happen to casually mention it to her when she
asks how my day’s been. Then I talk to Ted about the insurance and tell him I
may have reconsidered on the rebuilding but that we need to talk, because I’d be
wanting to make some changes. And if I happen to mention that the Post article
on hate crimes is something that we should take advantage of in getting good
will, etc, going with the council to help move any necessary building permits
along, well, that’s just business.
By the time Emmett arrives at eight, our whole little circle has been calling
back and forth like damned dogs baying at the moon.
He’s all excited over it as well, and I have to physically restrain him from
engulfing little Sunshine in a whole series of ‘you’re such a brave little hero’
hugs.
But once he gets past that and we start in on the Thai food we’d ordered, he
forgets about that and I’m taking bets with myself on how long it will be before
he either fucking bursts from curiosity or comes out and asks us why we invited
him over.
Before either can happen, Sunshine intervenes and puts him out of his misery.
“We want to hold a dinner,” he says.
Emmett’s eyes bug out a bit further and he squeaks, “What sort of dinner?
“One where people sit down and eat," I snark.
Which earns me a look from the famous artiste and I shut up.
“Well,” he says. Then he looks at me … a sort of ‘what the fuck do I say?’ look
that makes me come to his rescue.
“A celebration dinner,” I tell Emmett.
“Over the article?” Emmett asks, understandably confused about why we’d want to
celebrate being reminded that some homophobic bastards have twice tried to kill
him.
I shrug.
“Over his first show,” I say. “Over the fact that all the pieces that were for
sale have sold. Over the fact that we’re all still here to celebrate it.”
Of course, that makes Emmett go a little weepy eyed.
“So … you’ll be waiting till Michael’s out of hospital?” he says, with just
enough hesitation to turn it into a question.
I nod and Justin says, “Oh, yeah. Of course.”
Of course. Aside from anything else, Deb would make our lives not worth living
for weeks if we didn’t.
“Deb says that the doctors are talking about releasing him maybe on Thursday,”
Emmett puts in. “She’s really upset about it … says he’s not nearly ready.”
I sigh. Because of course she’d know better than the doctors, just like she
knows better than the lawyers what Ben should do.
Justin looks at me, and I take a breath and say to Emmett, “There is one other
thing we’re celebrating.”
He gets all excited and says, “You’re not!”
“No, we’re fucking not,” I tell him. He doesn’t need to know how close we came.
“But we are getting a house,” Justin says. “A beautiful house. You wait till you
see it.”
Emmett squeals then, and claps his hands. “Do say you’re going to have a
house-warming,” he urges.
Justin is smiling and I find myself grinning back at him. Emmett sees, and gives
me a suddenly serious look. Then he fucking pats my knee.
“I’m happy for you, honey,” he says sincerely. “I really am. For both of you.”
“Thanks, Em,” Justin says. “We’ll need you to plan the housewarming, of course.
But that won’t be for ages, by the time the settlement goes through, and we get
it furnished and stuff. So we want to have a house announcement dinner. And have
photos of the house everywhere so people can get an idea what it’s like and …
can you help us make that perfect?”
Some people might be able to resist Sunshine when he’s like that, but Honeycutt
isn’t one of them.
“Of course I will, sweetie,” he says. “It will be absolutely wonderful You just
tell me what you want, and then leave it all to me.”
I’d like to tune out the rest of the evening, but if I did, God knows what
they’d come up with. Besides, I need to make sure that Emmett gets it that
Justin is going to have everything exactly the way he wants it - no matter what
it costs.
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Justin
I suppose it’s just typical of our lives that in the end our big announcement
dinner isn’t just about us buying the house - it’s about me leaving for New
York.
I mean … Brian finally stops being a total dick and comes to my Prom and we
dance, and it’s all perfect and then - Hobbs and his baseball bat.
Brian finally asks me to move in - really asks me, not because I’m damaged, or
have nowhere else to go, but because he wants me there - and the LA thing
happens.
So of course just when we finally work out what we want and what we’re doing
together - something comes along and bingo! I have to go to New York.
By the time we’re getting dressed to go to the dinner, I’m starting to really
freak out. Today’s Friday … I leave on Sunday. I so don’t want to be wasting
time with other people that I could be spending with Brian. But at the same time
… I want them to see us together. I want everyone to have tonight to remember,
to remind themselves that, no matter if I have to go away for a while, we are
planning on having a life together. This is just a temporary thing. I want them
all to remember so that they can remind Brian.
It’s all happened so fucking fast.
We got back from Chicago and a couple of days after that, they released Michael
from the hospital. Things with Ben look like working out okay. Everyone is
hopeful that when the case comes up he’ll be able to enter a plea to some minor
thing and it will all sort of go away. The guy he hit seems to be recovering, so
that all looks like being alright.
Everything was going really well, in fact.
Then, on the Sunday after our weekend in Chicago - last Sunday, in fact,
although it seems longer ago than that - the New York Times printed a whole big
review of Sydney’s show - mainly featuring my work. I mean, huge color photos,
the lot - and the critic raved about it.
I remembered him, and I thought that if he wrote anything at all he’d cane me,
because Brian was really rude to him when he thought he caught him checking out
my ass.
But he didn’t … he … it was kind of embarrassing, really. Overwhelming.
And then two days later I got a phone call from Sydney. It was about some
artists’ co-op in New York who wanted to talk to me. I called the number they’d
left with Sydney, and it turns out it’s a sort of student’s studio. They take in
new young artists for a year - give them studio space, encourage them to
workshop together, learn from each other and organize a couple of exhibitions
every year so they can get their work seen.
And they want me.
The problem is, the program starts next week and they say I need to be there by
the end of the first week at the latest because they have a couple of
“functions” and invite some critics and gallery owners, so they can meet the
artists and see some of the ‘before’ stuff I guess - some of the work they’ve
already got in their portfolios.
Like I say - the timing is for shit.
If the fucking review had come out a week later, it would have been too late,
and … I wouldn’t have had to decide.
Not that there was ever really any choice. I mean, Brian didn’t say anything
when I first told him and I thought he was just going to stand back and let me
make my own decision. But then the next day he told me I should go, made it
clear that he expected me to live up to my promise and not turn down this sort
of thing because of him.
I nearly had a meltdown, but he wouldn’t let me … he just told me to suck it up,
that stuff happens, and we just have to deal. Then he said that it was just a
fucking year - not even that - a few months, and that I wasn’t going to be on
the other side of the world, or even the other side of the country. He said it
wasn’t like when I was in LA and it was too far to come home for the weekend,
reminded me that it’s only an hour away by plane.
It was only a day or so later that I realized that he’d been to see Gus and that
both Lindsay and Mel had got into his ear about it.
I fucking hate it that they did that. Maybe if they hadn’t then …. But they did,
and they convinced him that I “had” to take this opportunity. Made him feel like
I’d wind up resenting him if I didn’t. All that shit.
In some ways it is the right thing for me to be doing. But in others …
The truth is that I wouldn’t be going if it wasn’t for the fact that I know he’d
never forgive himself if I didn’t. And he’d never stop blaming himself if I
don’t “make it” as an artist. Which is such shit, because honestly that stuff
really is in the lap of the gods. I’ve seen work by ‘world renowned’ artists
that I wouldn’t hang in my toilet. And work by people no one has ever heard of
that I think is brilliant. It’s just … luck, a lot of the time.
But he talked to me and made me see how badly it would fuck things up if I
didn’t go. It’s crazy, but the way I have to prove to him that he can believe in
me, can have faith in me, is to leave him. At least for these few months.
I just don’t know how I’m going to stand it.
But now we’re at the dinner, and all our friends and weird little family are in
there and we have tonight to show them how together we are,
Because we are. We really are.
And tonight they’re all going to see it.
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Brian
It’s been a hellish day at work. Stupid fucking client changing their mind at
the last minute about what they fucking want. By the time I get home I’ve got a
bitch of a headache and all I want to do is to have a shower and a drink and
forget the day ever happened.
So when I first get home, I’m glad that he’s quiet.
But when he doesn’t join me in the shower, I start wondering, and when I come
out and he’s sitting staring into space I know something’s fucking not right.
When he tells me, I almost want to laugh. Fucking typical! I just start getting
my shit together and now this. But I’ve promised myself that I won’t interfere,
that I’ll let him make his own decisions, so I just take him to bed and distract
us both from our worries. Besides, it doesn’t sound that big a deal to me - just
another form of school really, and I think he’s past that.
But the next day both Lindsay and the she-dog she lives with take turns in
telling me what a totally selfish prick I’d be if I let him give up this
opportunity. Linsday especially keeps on about what a great reputation the place
has for discovering new artists and how it’s such an honor and such a great
chance to get exposure in New York, and all that shit.
So when I get home, I sit him down for a chat.
At first he’s all, “oh, it’s no big deal” about it, but when I call him on that
he comes clean and says that he just doesn’t think it’s the right time.
“The right time for you, as an artist, or the right time for us?” I ask.
He goes very quiet then. So I have to do it, I have to push him.
“Sunshine,” I tell him, “since the beginning … what’s worked for us … is that we
go for it … everything … no second best, no holding back.
"When we started, and I wouldn’t give you the time of day … you just came after
me. At Babylon, at Woody's, you were there, in my face, you wouldn’t let me walk
away.
"You went for it with that damned fucking club, with Hobbs, with the … when you
asked me to your fucking Prom. We danced in front of all the fucking straights
and you mightn’t remember it, but we were fucking fabulous.”
I want to stop there, to just remember for one moment how fucking beautiful he
was that night, not to think of the rest … but … I can’t stop … I have to make
sure he understands this.
“We went for it with Stockwell, and yes it cost me my fucking job, and you your
college career but we did it anyway.”
He mumbles something, his head down, and I grab his chin and make him look at me
for a moment before I acknowledge it … “Yes, even with the fucking fiddler.”
He bites his lip and I give him a wolf grin.
“Do you seriously think we’d be here, where we are today, how we are today, if
you’d gone on putting up with all my shit? If you hadn’t had the balls to leave.
And the even bigger balls it took to come back?”
He looks into my eyes for a long moment and then gives me a ghost of a smile.
But the devil is back in his blue eyes.
“When I found out about the cancer …” he stiffens again, his hands tightening
their grip on my hips. I look right into his eyes.
“I was tempted to fucking bail,” I tell him bluntly. “But I didn’t. I took it
on. And you took me on, and we battled our way through it.
“You went for it in LA, and even if the fucking assholes let it drop, you still
put yourself on the line for it. And we fucking learned that we can survive a
few fucking months apart if we have to.”
He looks at me then, all right. Because he knows what a chicken shit I am, and
how close I came to giving up on us. But he has to know that I learned something
in those fucking months he was away.
“The thing is, whenever something has come along, we’ve taken it on. We’ve never
backed away from anything, never turned our backs on a challenge.”
I grip his shoulders even harder.
“Justin … that’s what makes us who we are … it’s what makes us work. We can’t
change the way we operate now. That’s what will make us fucking fall apart. If
we start backing away from the challenges.”
His eyes fill up then and he leans against me and then all I can do is hold him.
That’s all I want to do for the rest of the week.
But he has to get fucking organized. Aside from finding somewhere to live (which
turns out to be with some friend of Daphne’s because he won’t fucking let me pay
for a decent damned place), he needs to get his art stuff shipped and all sorts
of shit.
Cynthia’s replacement helps to organize all that. It hadn’t fucking occurred to
me that promoting her would mean that I didn’t have her to rely on, but the new
one is sufficiently terrified to be on the ball.
But all week there doesn’t seem to be a moment when we’re not in the middle of
organizing something - the house purchase, the fucking insurance, some in-home
nursing for Mikey, his move, this fucking dinner.
Everything.
And now it’s Friday night, and the dinner, and tomorrow we’ll spend together and
then Sunday …
But I’m not going to think about that now. Right now we’re going to host this
dinner, and show off the photos of our fucking new house, and tell them about
this glittering new career opportunity that’s come up for him and make like it’s
all according to plan.
Which maybe it is. Someone’s plan.
But it’s sure as fuck not mine.
Because the only plan I’ve had in my head since he got back from LA was to
somehow keep him here. Only I can’t do that.
I have to let him go. Have to smile and wave goodbye and make him believe that I
believe he’ll be back.
Otherwise he won’t leave, and I couldn’t live with that.
Oh, well. Right now it’s showtime.
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Epilogue
Justin
I’ve been in New York nearly a month when I hear about Lindsay and Mel.
Apparently they’d been planning their move even before I started planning mine.
Not that I had much time to plan. But they did. They listed the house and
everything before they even discussed it with Brian and Michael. And then did
the whole ‘oh, we won’t go if you don’t agree’ thing. Except that when Brian
didn’t agree, Lindsay guilted him into it.
None of which I even knew until Debbie called me to bitch about them.
I was so fucking angry. I still am. Brian eventually called and talked to me
about it last night. After they’d left. Not that he said much. But I know how
gutted he must be.
If he wasn’t due to arrive this evening for the weekend I’d …
I don’t know. I’d nothing. That’s the most fucking frustrating part. Brian had
to say goodbye to Gus yesterday and who knows when he’ll see him again and I
can’t do any fucking thing about it without making it worse.
Because, like I have to keep reminding myself, Brian doesn’t have any rights to
Gus at all. No right to say that they can’t take his son off to another country.
No right to demand to be allowed to visit him. Nothing.
So that pair of cunts can just take Gus and ask Brian to stay away for “a while”
so that Gus can get settled and neither of us can do anything, because if we
call them on their shit they can just tell us to stay away permanently, never
let Brian see his son at all.
Fuck!
I used to really like Lindsay, and Mel was okay, most of the time.
But this is all such shit.
And I’m stuck here in New York and the only thing I can do is be here. I mean,
when Brian comes to me, I can be here for him. At least, coming here, he can get
away from all this shit and we can just be together, and try to forget
everything else for a while. A bit like it was in Chicago.
Except there, part of it was knowing that we were going home and getting the
house and really getting on with being together.
But here … here I lie awake all night beside Brian, not wanting to go to sleep
and miss one single moment of being with him. Because when he goes home on
Monday, I won't be with him. Not for a fucking truckload lot of Mondays.
They talk about ‘if you love something, set it free’, but no one ever talks
about how it feels to be the one set free - how you have to break your heart and
fly away just to prove that you’ll come home again.
But because I love Brian, and because I understand that he needs me to be all I
can be …
All I can do is try to make this work, try to be some sort of success here, and
make him proud of me.
And more than anything, try to hold it together, hold us both together, till
it’s time for me to come home.
Like Brian says, “It’s only time.”
I can only hope he’s right.
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