I stare at the curve of his neck long after he falls asleep, still dead tired but unable to let myself drift off. I think about the house we grew up in, about the way the porch sagged under Don’s weight. I think about the recording of our conversation, and the calculating look in Don’s eyes when he realized he was the one who was cornered.
I put him in his place. I made it clear that he will not contact or come near us again. But there’s still a big part of me that worries it’s not enough.
As Ari sleeps soundly in my arms, I feel the weight of the secret pressing against my ribs.
I don’t want Ari to know that Don resurfaced. I don’t want him to have to remember that house, that yard, that version of himself.
It’s not that I don’t think he can handle it. But he’s carried enough.
He shifts in his sleep and tightens his hold on the arm I have around his waist, as if even unconscious he refuses to let distance creep back in between us.
I press my lips into his hair and close my eyes.
He’s carried enough, but maybe so have I.
He chose me tonight. And I chose him.
I won’t lie if he asks me again, but if he doesn’t, maybe I can let him have this quiet a little longer.
THIRTY-TWO
ARI
Things settle down over the next couple of weeks. The press is still out of control, pushing hard to get into all our private lives, but Jesse takes the brunt of it. They don’t let up on him, and by extension, Luc. There’s a list of men the media thinks might be his mystery lover, and Luc is definitely on it, given the two have forged somewhat of a public friendship. Jesse has been photographed in Luc’s jersey and attended at least one game. Plus, there was the donation Luc made that sparked a huge influx of his NFL friends and connected celebrities to make large donations to our charity concert.
Alonso is also a top contender on that list, thanks in part to Will’s distraction techniques from our trip to Dallas this past fall. He also made a large pledge through the charity concert and has been a public supporter of our outreach. We’ve spoken a few times here and there, and he thinks the attention is funny. It helps that, as an A-list Hollywood celebrity, he’s used to and sometimes even appreciates the attention. After I mentioned to him that his spot at the top of the list is appreciated by the real man in question, he even seemed to intentionally pull some of the focus by teasing the media without ever confirming ordenying his involvement with Jesse. I’m going to hug him for that the next time I see him, and even Will had to admit that he’s a good guy.
So, the world hasn’t stopped turning by any means, and the news never shuts up or gives us a break, but it’s a lot calmer. Jesse has disappeared into Luc’s orbit, hiding out in Luc’s condo in Louisiana. When he resurfaces for video calls, he has a dazed, soft look about him, like his nervous system has finally learned what peace is supposed to feel like outside of drugs or alcohol. I expected him to be crawling out of his skin being stuck inside so often, but I think the downtime has been good for him. He seems calmer and happier than I’ve seen him before. He even goes to visit Luc’s family, and when he shares pictures in our group chat, he looks like the real Jesse we knew back in high school, like the man that lives behind the stage version of Jesse Moore and was numb for so long.
The rest of us have been lying low as well. Naz is the only one who the cameras catch very often, coming and going from our condo building. There’s definitely speculation about his bodyguard, and a new trend emerges finding pictures of Scott looking at Naz in what look to be loving ways. Most of them are out of context, but it’s kind of funny, and Naz doesn’t seem to care if anyone is shipping him with his bodyguard. He never actually comes out and says they’re together, but Will and I both know they’re fucking at the very least.
I can’t say I mind being in hiding. Will and I have been in a bubble since the movie night at Jesse’s place. We do everything together—sleep, eat, workout, watch movies, work on songs. We part for therapy sessions, but we also each join each other for a session. I really like Will’s therapist. Ezra seems really down to earth, and I appreciate that they’re working towards getting Willto forgive himself for what he feels are flaws. It’s one reason I haven’t brought up the question about where he’d been that day. I decided it doesn’t matter. Will deserves my trust, and we both deserve to enjoy the quiet easiness between us.
We’ve always spent time together, grew up close and stayed that way for most of our lives. But it’s different now, and the way we so easily moved from brothers to a reluctant admission of physical attraction to actual lovers is unreal. Some things are the same, like the way Will naturally falls into the role of caretaker, making sure I eat by always making two of whatever he’s having. And some things are very different, like the way we touch each other. He still won’t fuck me, but I don’t feel hurried about it. His reasoning makes sense to me, and it shows how much he’s really taking this seriously that he wants to do thingsthe right way.
And it’s the little things, like the way he looks at me or blushes when he catches me looking at him. It’s the way he touches me in passing constantly, like he has to remind his hands that I’m real. It’s how reverently he holds me in his arms at night, and the way he looks into my eyes when he makes me come.
Sometimes I think that if the world ended tomorrow, I could live inside this condo forever and be happy.
And then I hate myself for thinking that, because the world is still burning every time we turn on the news, and I feel like we should be doing more than just sending money to legal aid funds and posting online tocall your senators!
I know we’re lying low for a good reason, and we have big things on the horizon that we need to get to. Like the Superbowl Halftime Show. It seems trivial, but that many eyes on our message could bring a lot of good. That, and I remember whatmy therapist said to me when she accused me of punishing myself for happiness.
Joy is not betrayal. Joy is not denial.
Joy is fuel. Joy is resistance.
I’m not burying my head in the sand. I’m doing what I can to use my privilege for good while also fueling up for our next big move.
So when Christmas rolls around and Will mentions going to New York, I can’t even pretend not to be excited.
New York is cold in a way that Raleigh never is, a bite in the air that makes my nose sting. Everything is lit up. Everything is loud. Everything is perfect.
We put up a tiny tree and agree to only get each other gifts that we make for each other. I kind of cheat on mine, but I’m not sorry. My gift sits tucked into a thick, overstuffed dark blue envelope. Will’s is a tiny box wrapped in notebook paper.
On Christmas Eve, I open his gift first. The notebook paper turns out to be a folded page that looks like it’s been written on. And inside the tiny box is a guitar pick. It’s a random guitar pick, matte black and scratched up from use, with our band logo on the back.
“What is this?” I ask, unfolding the notebook paper and finding Will’s messy scrawl. “Song lyrics?”
