“He’s handy.” In the bastardization of Flannery O’Connor’s seminal work, I added, “A good handyman is hard to find. Can I have his number?”
“No,” Liam said curtly.
“Please?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Liam, don’t be selfish.”
“You’ll tell him all my secrets and embarrass me terribly.”
“I won’t. I promise. Besides, you said it wasn’t serious.”
“It’s not,” he snapped. I sensed we were reaching the upper reaches of Liam’s patience. “Besides, he has better things to do than build your stupid bookshelves. Order some from Ikea.”
“They’re too flimsy.” I liked solid, sturdy wood, built to last. One of these days I’d learn to do some basic carpentry myself. When Arden moved in with me, he’d need some as well.
“I think it’s good,” Franco said. “You need someone down to earth. You spend too much time with snobs.”
“Franco, how positively rude,” Liam protested. “You should count yourself as one of them.”
“I’m the most humble man I know,” Franco proclaimed, and I had to laugh.
I recalled then how Liam had been lusting so heavily after those construction workers that day in my apartment. “Does your handyman wear work boots?”
“Shut up,” Liam said, blushing beet-red. “I’d rather talk about your own troubles in love. Surely, you’ve screwed up at least once since the last time, Franco?”
“I’ve been on my best behavior. We’re doing the whole monogamy thing, you know?” Franco shot me a pointed look.
“Radical,” I said.
“Jealous, Michael?” Franco jabbed. He couldn’t have known how personal I might take it, but my ensuing silence gave me away. “I didn’t mean…”
“Never mind,” I said shortly. “I’m sure we have better things to talk about than our sex lives. Art. Film. The price of wheat in Kansas.”
We spoke then of other things, but I was distracted. I didn’t want to share Arden with other men or worry about him when he wasn’t with me. I’d never been comfortable with our arrangement, but I’d made compromises because I wanted it to work. Now, I feared that if I made any demands, I’d find myself in the unhappy situation of losing him altogether.
These thoughts buzzed like house flies as we strolled up to the familiar black door and pushed the buzzer. The voice that greeted us was not Mr. Horne but someone in a gruff, authoritative tone.
“Names?” the voice asked, their brusqueness just shy of rude. I supplied them, and a moment later, the door opened. We were greeted by security, then instructed to provide identification and lock up our cell phones in what looked like mailboxes from when the building was divided into apartments.
“No photos, no videos, no posting to social media,” a square-jawed man said, looking as though he might attempt to frisk us next. “If you need to make a call, take it outside.”
We were given the keys to our respective boxes, and the man pointed toward the elevators where another security guard stood waiting.
“I’d rather take the stairs,” I said.
“Stairs are for emergencies only,” the man said.
Perhaps Matteo wanted to keep the other two floors secure. We boarded the elevator, and Franco shot me a questioning look.
“I’m as clueless as you,” I assured him.
When we arrived at the landing, the doors to Matteo’s penthouse were already thrown open. Flowers were strewn about the marble floor in a pathway leading us to the party. Though seemingly random, there was an artistry in their arrangement that I recognized. I imagined Arden carefully placing each blossom, turning them just so in order to present their “good side,” similar to how he insisted on posing for pictures.
Inside, the foyer was a riot of color with massive, cascading flower arrangements, small, potted trees strung with tea lights, and an arbor threaded with climbing vines, underneath which two men were intimately engaged in conversation.
“Shall we their fond pageant see? Lord, what fools these mortals be!” Liam recited.
