Selby scrunches her face and emits a giggle that’s so adorable that I’m almost positive she’s practiced it in front of a mirror at some point in her life.
“She’s eighty-two. What the hell was she doing on a ladder?” Romeo asks.
“Yeah, well, that’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it,” I answer, ignoring the fact that’s exactly what I said when my mom told me what happened.
Selby takes it upon herself to turn the incident into a teaching moment. She stands a little straighter and speaks demurely. She knows things, but she doesn’t want to be a dick about it. “When my grandpa turned eighty, my dad went over to his place and took every ladder, step ladder, and power tool he owned. Yep, confiscated them all and keeps them in his own garage now. You hear too many stories like this, you know. Elderly people hurting themselves through accidents that could be avoided.”
I can’t tell if I’m wildly oversensitive or if I actually am under thinly veiled attack. Out of pure habit, I glance at Romeo to see his take on the matter.
His face is unreadable. A stony mask that’s pristine and perfect, porcelain that’s been painted on and gives nothing away. I drain my glass in a couple of large gulps and top it up generously without waiting for Selby or Romeo to offer to do it. While I’m at it, I fill his glass and hers, too, though a little more sparingly.
Conversation between Romeo and me is stilted, but it hardly seems to matter. Selby talks enough for the three of us. Though I don’t remember asking, she gives me a full rundown of the changes they’ve made to the house. “Of course it waslovelybefore.” Four syllables, maybe five. “It wasbeautiful.” Five syllables, for sure. “It’s just that it wasn’tourtaste, you know?”
“Mm.” I smile and nod. “Not your taste?” I’ve realized that if I paraphrase what she says, I can keep the conversation going without exerting more strenuous effort.
Romeo’s face remains impassive, but something menacing glints in his eyes. Glass. No, metal. It takes me a while to piece it together because his reactions are so microscopic that initially, even I don’t pick up on them. But I soon realize that while to the casual observer, it looks like we are three old friends sitting around a table, eating fajitas in aroom that would photograph well for an app like Instagram but feels clinical as hell in real life, Romeo and I are sparring. We’re fencing. Fighting. And our swords aren’t made of sticks. We’re playing with steel. We’re swinging hand-forged weapons with razor-sharp blades.
Every time I speak, he cuts me. Shallow cuts at first. Just papercuts, really, but they sting more than they should. I strike back harder, cutting deeper.
“What happened to all the art?” I ask Selby, bracing and lunging. Romeo’s top lip stiffens. He anticipates my attack and raises his guard.
“Oh, the art issospecial to us. We kept all of it, didn’t we, Rome? I had a contractor come over and crate the paintings individually for safekeeping. They’re all in the garage.”
Our eyes meet. Metal strikes metal. Sparks fly.
“Ah,” I say, “safekeeping? That’s nice.”
The conversation has ground to a halt, but it’s no matter. Selby turns to Romeo and changes the subject completely.
“Doesn’t Jude look great?”
I look at Romeo, advancing as I wait for him to confirm or deny it. I swing and parry. Feinting at the last minute. He winces. It’s barely there, just a hint, but I see it, a fine hairline fracture in his mask.
He pivots and blocks, opening his mouth to speak, but it’s too late. Selby beats him to it, resting a hand lightly on his shoulder, subtly letting him know she still has the floor.
“Don’t you think he looks wonderful? A glow-up, that’s what you’ve had, Jude. Honestly, I took a second to recognize you yesterday. No, not a glow-up. A gay-up.” She laughs so hard at her joke that a full set of bottom molars is exposed. When I don’t laugh nearly as loudly, she looks at Romeo. “Can I say that or not?”
“You can, but why would you?” Romeo manages to sound bored, seething, and mild-mannered simultaneously.
He’s only one of those things, I can assure you of that. And it’s not bored or mild-mannered.
It’s no matter. Selby powers on undeterred. “I justloveyour little two-piece,” she says, crinkling her eyes at the corners. “It’s adorable, isn’t it, Rome?Supercute. I mean, you were always a hottie, Jude. I’m not saying you weren’t or anything. You definitely were. D’you know that Olivia Romero cried when you came out?” Her eyes dance with menace or mirth. I can’t tell which. “I can really tell you’ve been working out.”
As a matter of fact, I have been. I’ve worked out five times per week for the past five years in an attempt to stave off crippling depression, and I’ve learned how to dressfrom friends who are stylists to people with more money than sense. I earn a good living, and since my life doesn’t have much meaning anyway, I spend it on myself. I go to a barber on the Upper East Side who plays scratchy jazz and pours me a single malt whiskey while I wait. I’ve been going there for so long that I’m able to lie back and let him put green goo all over my face without breaking into a sweat. I know he’ll wipe it off with a hot towel before I leave and my skin will glow for days. I’m at least ninety percent confident he won’t accidentally slice through my jugular when he uses the straight razor on my neck, and while I do still flinch when he waxes my brows and nose, I don’t jump nearly as high as I used to. And I don’t squeal at all anymore.
So, I guess youcouldsay I’ve had a gay-up.
Romeo strikes. To the uneducated eye, it’s merely a dismissive shrug. It’s neither a yes nor a no. It’s an action that hardly matters. That hardly happened. To me, it’s a hard strike that makes contact and draws blood.
It’s not the response Selby expected, and she’s not happy about it. She’s entertaining, for God’s sake. She has company, and the last thing she needs is her husband choosing this moment to be weird. She gives Romeo a pointed stare and attempts to rectify things. “Well, Sam’s a lucky guy. That’s all I can say.”
Sam’s a lucky guy?
Sam?Sam?
How the fuck does she know about Sam?
I’m winded. Wounded. Fragments of our years apart splinter and fall into place. It happens slowly and then fast as it dawns on me. Romeo hasn’t simply not told Selby that we fell out. It’s worse than that. Much worse. Or better, depending on how much you like drama. He’s kept in touch. One-sided, of course, but still, he’s kept up with my life. He’s been asking my mother or Lexi about me. No, not Lexi. She would have told me. He’s been asking my mother. Or he’s been stalking my socials.
