“Oh, crap. That’s tonight. Right.” It’s not like him to forget one of my events, but I shrug it off.
He sets his wineglass down near the toaster with a nod. “Guess I’d better get changed.”
I follow leisurely behind him into our master bedroom where our king bed sits up against exposed brick and the large windows look down upon a relatively quiet sidewalk. I guess it was possible to find peace in this city of so many noises after all.
“It’s business casual,” I remind him. “You don’t have to wear a blazer if you don’t want to.”
The way he relaxes makes me laugh. Dressing Hector up is a chore and a half. Mrs. Martinez told me he was the same way as a child when she broke out the scrapbooks nearly a year ago. It’s one of the many quirks I love about him. If he wants to live in ripped jeans and beanies, that’s his business. And besides, he looks so damn good in them.
I make myself comfortable on the edge of the bed, careful not to spill any red wine on our fresh, white duvet. I like watching Hector change. Taut, tan skin reveals itself like the gift that keeps on giving. He wiggles out of his jeans and into slacks.
As he lifts his shirt, I swiftly jump up and run a finger through his treasure trail toward his belly button. He giggles, which he only does, I’ve learned, when I surprise him. I wanted to see his smile.
“Keep it up like that and we’ll never make it out of this apartment,” he says, grabbing two handfuls of my ass with a low growl. The city looks good on him, I must admit.
Wind River Hector was tough and sure, but here, he’s really transforming into a rare breed of self-assured man. I waited for this to scare me, but the fear never came. I thought somehow a catch with a face like his might meet another intellectual, stylish grad student and finally realize that while I might have been a Massachusetts seven, I was a New York City five.
Ugh.I throw that thought away like the trash it is. It’s not productive. It’s notmeanymore. I’m working on it.
He fixes his button-down in the mirror. I come around behind him. The reflections staring back at us shoot happiness out in every direction. We’re bright individually, but we’re shinier together.
“Don’t you have a staff to oversee?” he asks.
My eyes nearly leap out of my head when I check my Apple Watch. I fling on my coat and blow Hector a kiss from the already closing doorway.
I take the subway, which I’ve come to love in its own unreliable and grimy way, uptown to Queens. It’s a bit of a hike but it will be worth it. The venue is everything I could’ve hoped for and more for this particular event. I settle on the plastic orange double seat and let the rattle and rock of the M train lull me as I do some meditative breathing.
Up on street level, I walk down the block and around the corner where the white, window-covered exterior of the modernist Museum of the Moving Image comes into view. Standing in front of the entrance, backed by neon-pink block letters, are a few of my highly skilled team members. They are all young, thriving, and willing to work for free this evening (though I secretly have holiday bonus envelopes stashed in my bag for each of them).
“Ready for some fun?” I ask.
Charlie, my assistant with iconic wire-rimmed glasses, pipes up first. “Everything in the café is in order. The centerpieces were a little more colorful than we expected, but they give a nice pop against the stark white of the space.” He opens the door for me to step inside.
No matter how many of these events I plan, I still get misty-eyed every time. I don’t know if it’s pride or disbelief or a combination of the two, but I’ll never get over the feeling of something sprouting up inside my brain and then blossoming to life in a location like this. I take in the soft lighting, the view beyond the windowed walls, and the busy bartenders polishing glasses.
A tasteful banner draped across the ceiling reads:Holiday Benefit for the LGBTQ Mental Health Alliance—Tis the Season to take care of your Mind, Body, and (Holiday) Spirit. Not my subtlest tagline, but then again, nobody hiresmefor subtlety anyway.
Charlie hands me my iPad with my last-minute checklist already marked off. It’s not like him to do my final sweep for me. “We all pitched in and figured you’d want some time to yourself before the event started. There are some early guests waiting for you in the exhibition.”
“There are? I specifically said doors weren’t open for another hour,” I begin to argue, but rein it in. I remind myself that I can be a boss without being bossy. Charlie just shakes his head with a secretive smile. “What’s going on? Who’s here?”
“I think you’ll want to see for yourself,” he says, pushing his glasses farther up his nose. “I think you know where to find them too.”
I start away, taking the stairs in twos. I bypass Tut’s Fever Movie Palace with its ornamental marquee and the nearby prosthetics exhibit.
On the second floor, the zany orange and black of the Jim Henson Exhibition (my happy place) appears across the way. Mom stands there expectantly, dressed in complementary all-magenta. I can’t help but pick up my pace.
“I thought you couldn’t come,” I say before giving her a kiss on the cheek.
“Matthew, we’ve been over this. I writefiction. I’m a good liar,” she says. “More liars incoming behind you.”
When I turn, Grandma and Gramps, in their Sunday best even though it’s Friday, shout out to us, hands waving vivaciously. Hector, looking just as dapper as he did when I left him, leads the way. Hugs are exchanged. Cheeks are pinched. Nothing has changed. Well, everything has changed, but the good stuff has only gotten better.
“You boys look well,” Gramps says, rubbing my shoulder. I think he feels like he played Cupid somehow. I’ll let him have that one, since it makes him so giddy.
“Shall we head back down? Guests should be arriving soon,” I say.
Hector shakes his head and pushes me toward the exhibition entrance.
