“As many as you want,” I assured him with a light brush of my lips to the nape of his neck. The tension in his shoulders slowly melted away, and he settled again into my arms.
“I’d like your help,” he said at last. “You’re a good writer, and it’s important to me that I get it right.”
I didn’t know what it might mean to get it wrong, but I wasn’t in the mood to ask questions. I nuzzled him closer and drifted to sleep with his scent in my nostrils, his soft skin warm against my own.
The next morning,Arden was gone with a note explaining that he’d had an early appointment. There was also an invitation to help myself to breakfast. I opened his kitchen cabinets to find the strangest thing—rows upon rows of canned goods, alphabetized and arranged so that they faced outward at the same exact angle. Was he like that psychopath fromSleeping with the Enemy? His refrigerator was organized the same way, every condiment lined up with military precision. I checked the bathroom and found, to my relief, that the towels were not evenly hung.
I didn’t want to risk ruining his careful arrangement, so I texted him “good morning” with dates that would work for me to get out of town.
While in transit, Franco called me with an invitation to meet for lunch. I was about to blow him off when he casually mentioned, “It’s about your boyfriend.”
5
the rumors
“He’s not my boyfriend,” I said to Franco a little while later. We’d met at a deli in Hanover Square near Franco’s office since he was on his lunch hour. Franco ordered a Rueben. I ordered a BLT.
“Seemed like it to me.”
“We’re keeping it casual.”
“You?” he scoffed. His blue eyes looked even brighter against his olive complexion. His appearance was impeccable as always—thick, black hair slicked back with the aid of product and a power suit that accentuated his angular lines. I had a thing for men who were taller than me, men who carried themselves with confidence; they drew my eye and held it.
Meanwhile I still wore my wrinkled clothes from last night, something Franco noticed immediately.
“Where was this ‘keeping it casual’ man when we were together?” Franco asked.
I shook my head. “We weren’t together, Franco. We fucked when you didn’t have anyone better to fool around with.”
He made a face. “What about last time. When we were trying to make it work?”
“And I caught you having shower sex with another man? Without my knowledge or consent.”
“But I loved you best,” he said, something he’s always maintained, only by now, it felt like a joke.
“You were dishonest. We’re better as friends. No need to revisit it. Now, what’s this about Arden?”
Franco popped a salt and vinegar chip into his mouth, then wiped his greasy fingertips along the paper napkin he’d tucked into his collar to protect his silk tie.
“Marquis noticed his bracelet. Did you?”
Marquis, Franco’s date last night.
“No. Why would I?”
Franco pulled up his phone, scrolled for a minute, then showed me Arden’s Instagram feed. The picture was of a starstruck Arden accompanied by a severe, well-dressed man, older than Arden by at least twenty years. Both of them wore stylish tuxes. The caption said the picture was taken at the Met Gala.
“What am I looking at?” I asked Franco.
Franco shook his head as if threatening to revoke my gay card. “That’s Matteo Giacomo. A very famous fashion designer.”
“Arden is a model.” Seemed innocent enough.
“He’s wearing the same bracelet.”
“Okay.”
“Giacomo designed that bracelet. It has diamonds on the inside of the band where no one can even see them. It’s worth a fortune.”
