“Sorry,” he scrubs his hands through his hair. “I’m so behind on invoicing, and they’re upping the membership at the co-working space.”
“Well, nothing gets my heart going like invoicing and lease rates,” I say with a smile, but he doesn’t laugh. When he pushes up from his chair and starts undoing the snaps of his shirt, the motion is mechanical, and his gaze is still on the laptop screen instead of my face. Not that I’m here to be wooed, but his heart’s clearly not in it.
He stills when I put a hand on his. “What?”
I’ve come straight from a late meeting with the Ontario Arts Council. I left my laptop bag by the door and retrieve it now, pulling the computer out and setting it opposite his on the dining room table. I suppose I could just leave if we’re not having sex, but I’m not that much of a dick, and I was genuinely looking forward to seeing him.
He stays standing, hands on his hips, while I sit and turn my laptop on. I undo the top two buttons of my shirt, but only to be comfortable, not because I want anything else from him.
Brady watches me for a long time without moving, like he’s waiting for the punchline, so finally I say, “Don’t worry. It’s fully charged.”
He settles back down, and I know he’s keeping an eye on me. I don’t want to make a big deal about this, but I need him to know I don’t care if he chooses work over me some nights. Plus, I’ve got a funding application to update, and it’s due by Labour Day.
Eventually, the keys of his keyboard start tapping, and we both work through our to-do lists in silence for a few hours before his stomach rumbles.
“Takeout?”
“Hmm?” Brady’s eyes don’t leave his screen, almost like he’s forgotten I’m here at all. I order us some pad Thai and spring rolls, which he eats without closing his laptop.
I don’t intend to, but I worry about him. And in turn, I worry about me. Is this what living with me was like all those years? Brady is only a few years older than I was when Dominic and I met, and a year younger than when I started the festival. The look on his face, after he’d told his client he couldn’t fix his printer issue right away, is a feeling I know too well. Too many times I’d be at a parent-teacher conference or on a family trip, and think that I’d check my email quickly, only to find that a funding source was pulling out, or an overseas filmmaker was being barred from traveling to his premiere, or that some idiot journalist had decided to write a think piece titled “Do we really need distinct queer cinema spaces now thatCall Me By Your Nameis in the mainstream?”
In case you’re wondering, the answer to that last one is an unequivocal yes. I don’t have time to go into all the reasons why, and many people have expressed it better than I have. All you need to do is google.
But every time one of those emails came through, I’d lose an hour or more. Even if the message didn’t need urgent action, it would lodge in my brain like a sliver, and I’d have to mull it over while the teacher’s voice became a blur or while Lightning McQueen skated by at Disney on Ice, until I finally tweezed out a solution.
“You’re thinking about work again, aren’t you?” Dominic would say, and I always felt guilty, but how was I supposed to not solve problems for the baby I had been shepherding into the world even longer than we’d had the boys?
Eventually, I learned to stop checking my email, but by then it was already too late.
So yeah, I know that frightened look on Brady’s face, that panicked voice in his head that tells him he’s the only one who can solve this problem, because I’ve been there too.
And I’m worried what it will mean for him if he doesn’t get it under control. I don’t want him to be like me when he’s my age. I care too much about him to let that happen.
Except, of course, what am I supposed to do? I’m the customer who’s broken all the rules and currently thinks Brady’s dick is magic. Our arrangement doesn’t have the longevity needed to make sure Brady hasn’t descended to full-blown workaholism by his fortieth birthday.
The question nags at me while I’m in a meeting. Harpreet and Patrick, the intern, are pitching a podcast. I should be paying closer attention, but I can’t stop thinking about how I can help Brady instead.
“A podcast will help us maintain some visibility throughout the year,” Harpreet says.
“We can interview queer creators, filmmakers, and actors.” Patrick pushes his glasses up his nose as his head bobbles excitedly.
“And some of the participants in the screenwriter mentorship program,” Harpreet says.
“The who?” I say.
Her eyes widen. “The screenwriters? The mentoring program? The one you’re arranging.”
“Oh. Right. Right.” I tap at my phone screen, watching the seconds tick away. Most nights these days, I don’t even bother going home before I go to Brady’s. He likes peeling my clothes off me and finally stopped harassing me about my cufflinks. We put them in a little dish on his dresser, and he helps me put them back on when I leave.
And tonight I’m on a bit of a crunch. I have a phone call with those same screenwriters this evening, so my time with Brady will be limited.
Harpreet eyes me, while Patrick’s gaze ping-pongs nervously between us.
“Are you okay?” she says.
“Yeah, fine. Why?”
They continue on with their presentation. Patrick does most of the talking, and I know she’s set up this pitch in part to give him some public speaking experience. He’s young and earnest as he talks, as if this podcast could change the world, and he does that upspeak thing that millennials do that drives me nuts. Is he even a millennial? What comes after them? Gen Z? Something about that always makes me think of zombies. I really am that old.
