“He’s not my roommate, Nicky, he’s my boyfriend. And he’s in the shower. Will this take long? I’d really like to join him.”
I also told everyone at work: Hector, Melissa, the kitchen crew, the other servers, hosts and hostesses. I even told the guy who drops off the produce. And Fang, more than once.
“Stop bragging, already,” Fang said unhappily.
When we were out, I introduced him as “my boyfriend, Andre,” and said things like, “I’ll need to check with my boyfriend” or “let me see what my boyfriend wants.” It was kind of obnoxious, but the more I said it, the more I wanted to say it.
When the reporter came by to interview me for a lifestyle piece, he asked me about my subject, and I told him it was my boyfriend, Andre. The write-up was borderline scandalous, which thrilled Nicky to no end. A photographer came back to photograph the two of us, a very classy Ralph Lauren-esque black-and-white spread. The title:The Painter and His Muse.
Melissa called us a sappy cliché and was in a constant state of rolling her eyes, but I didn’t care; I was in love.
But even as I was shouting it from the rooftops, Andre and I spent less time together. Between promos for the upcoming show, work, and painting, my schedule was packed. One night after closing, I came into the kitchen of La Candela to find Andre and Fang leaned in together over some new dish they’d just whipped up. They were sampling from the same plate, like lovers, practically feeding each other, said the snot in me. I wanted to be happy for Andre, that he had friends and a life outside of me, but a serpent of jealousy wound its way around my heart.
If Andre is all I need or want, why does he need anyone else?
And there were still times when he went out without telling me where he was going. I consoled myself with the thought that I always knew where he’d end up, which was back in bed with me.
I wanted more from him, but I didn’t know how to get it without seeming like a controlling boyfriend. And I didn’t want him to think I didn’t trust him—he’d never given me a reason not to. My imagination had a tendency to spiral out of control.
And then it was the night of my gallery opening. Nicky and Melissa had me on a tight leash all night long, leading me from heiress to millionaire to art critic to reporter. I had to be charming and aloof and incisive all at once. It was exhausting. Andre tagged along at first, but eventually made his way to the food and then disappeared altogether.
I found him toward the end of the night, in the alleyway behind the gallery, getting high with one of the caterers. There was a moment before he saw me, when he was passing the joint over to his new friend—I assured myself they were only friends—and Andre was flashing his smile, dimples showing, and a bolt of jealousy struck me, kicking my senses into high gear. That smile belonged to me and no one else.He’s mine, I wanted to yell at them both, like some Neanderthal.
My boyfriend, Andre.
And when Andre turned his head and caught my eye, his smile bloomed again, even more brilliant than before because he was mine.
But for that one second, when doubt overtook me, a thought raced through my mind, one so disturbing that it scared me to admit I’d even had it:
I’ll kill him before I let anyone take him from me.
14. Melissa
BEFORE WEleft my opening, I wanted to say good-bye to Melissa and thank her for everything she’d done to make it happen. I found her standing in front of my most recent painting, the one I called “the slumbering prince.” I didn’t title my paintings publicly, because I didn’t want to interpret it for the viewer or project my own feelings onto the painting, but in my head, they each had a name.
Even though I didn’t pick favorites, this one had a special place in my heart.
“When did you paint this?” she asked. Her voice was shaky and her face was pale. She looked like she’d seen a ghost.
“The night Nicky came by my place for the first time. You don’t like it?”
She shook her head, grimacing. Her lips were pulled back tight from her face, making her lipstick look clownish. The powder on her face was cracked around her mouth. Her eyes looked teary. Maybe she’d drunk too much. Red wine tended to make her weepy.
“Melissa, what’s wrong? Are you sick?”
She turned to me, placed her hands on my shoulders and looked truly miserable. “I’m so sorry, Martin, for anything I might have done to you. Please know that I only did it because I loved you, and I believed in your talent.”
I didn’t know what to say. Melissa had never done anything to me, other than support me, promote me, and occasionally kick my ass into high gear, which was a blessing as well. Even when we’d been intimate, it seemed mostly for my benefit, because I needed someone.
“Melissa, you’ve been perfect.” I clasped her hands in mine and squeezed. Maybe the events of the night were overwhelming her. It was a lot for me to take in as well.
“I need to take a trip, Martin.”
That threw me for a loop. It seemed like bad timing. “Now? But I need you here.”
“My aunt is sick. I have to go visit her.”
She’d never spoken about an aunt before, healthy or ailing. In fact, Melissa rarely talked about any family at all.
