CHRISTOPHERMURPHY 40 Copyright © 2020 by Christopher Murphy

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

First edition

This book was professionally typeset on Reedsy. Find out more at reedsy.com 3 He comes and goes like oceans rising and melting on the shore. He’saforcetobereckonedwithwhenthesunhitshisback,the sky scorches his silhouette - and I strain to see his despondent eyes glaring down at me from my seat on the crowded beach. This is supposed to be our day out. I packed a lunch, brought enough sunblock to drown in, and fought the mosquitoes that bit back through the thick, salty air. Cursing like a sailor. It’s humid as hell, and my skin is a rich butter bronze, warm-to- the-touch hue thatseemstobelonginaCrayolabox. Beach-burnt Gold, the label might exclaim. My swimsuit is new and dry as I situate myself and make a blanket out of sand, and bits of broken seashells, and glass. He tries to convince me that the water is perfect, but it looks like ice from where I’m sitting. I’m being difficult, but he loves this about me. The water hits the rocks behind him like fireworks, and I bathe in the afterglow. We make castles out of the clouds and dungeons in the sand, full of watery moats and treacherous turns we’re careful not to slip into. I finish reading my favorite book again as he watches the freckles color my shoulders and my farmer’s tan fade in the sun’s embrace. His own skin is brown and red and copper remnants fused into one glowing tapestry of color. His neck is a shade darker than before. Our love is just a little bit stronger than before as we pack the car to go back to our everyday grind. I find sand in his hair later that night as we unwind and count 4 the stars from our bed that we’re grateful to finally fall into. The raspy call of the ocean still plays in the back of my mind as my eyes become weighted with sleep. I pull him tighter to me… and wait for a wave to wash us away.

5 6 It’s like… Frostbitten memories and sleepless nights. Like blinking traffic lights and careless words. When I’m mad enough to spit bullets, and the record stops spinning. Screech. And it goes on. Like nothing ever happened. And it’s like tactless times when he’s frustrated that I won’t hold his hand. And allIcan seeisred when he’s acting like a child. Pulling at my arm with those big, brown eyes. Wanting me to kiss it and make it better. Like thoughtless Band-Aids and astringents. And I spaz when the thread breaks, too reckless to control my own trembling fingers. And what am I supposed to do when I’m restless and just want more? When his kiss is timeless, and I’d die without it. When he’s the one who crosses my T’s and dots my I’s. When the taste is gone, but it’s endless in my mind.

7 8 I sing low, moody tunes of grays and blues that sway like the trees at night. My lover is crass, gold-hued brass that blurts out the first thing that comes to his mind. I hold him close to me, kiss his cold lips, and fill him with warm thoughts and songs of yesterday. Yesterday, when my fingers betrayed me and words were flat shards of metal I’d spit onto the page without trepidation. Today, I eat those words with a pinch of salt to taste, crack my knuckles, and make preparations for the end. Soon our song will fade like color in the sunlight for too long… Melt like fear in the spotlight, fall like the stars at midnight… and then we’ll be our usual reckless selves on the stage, singing to anyone that will listen as if our lives depend on it. Because they do. Him and I, together, we two fuse hot metal and jazz like too many G&Ts at the your local, favorite bar. They whisper our names like a sticky, summer breeze just before the lights go out. Backstage is black, and you suddenly have nothing to say. You no longer wanna play your sweet, sad songs and seem determined to make me cry. I fight back hot tears and put you away – until tomorrow, when we’ll sing our song all over again. We’ll smile in the stage lights like the world is golden and perhaps tomorrow the tune will change. Perhaps tomorrow, the tune will change.

9 10 His breath is all jive and gin and honey that melts over me… Warm, seductive, and sticky. He reeks of bar smoke, cheap aftershave, and years that have been anything but kind to him. Yet, there’s this rusty, copper shine to him that catches my eye… Makes me look twice, although I can guess he must be taken or just full of it. His fast-talking, pimp-walking swagger lets me know it’s a dream he’s after. Foolish delusions people chase like fast women and fast cars. His home is the streets, neon nightlife, and seedy male bars - full of “punks” and “sissies” that he calls his brothers and lovers. Me? I’m neither one or the other. Just a stranger in his world. He licks his lips at me, as if threatening to sop me up with a biscuit. He slides over with bowed legs and a face so handsome I’m careful not to look into his eyes dead-on. Like the sun. He’s buzzing in my ear, whispering sweet melodies and poetry that breathe the Harlem Renaissance in my ear. It’s all I can do not to admire his game. Not to give in, shrug bashfully, and confess to him my name. Not to invite him home for a nightcap – old Whiskey over ice – which would surely be to blame for letting him get under my skin and into my sheets. And in the morning? Like the inevitable. He’s gone with my wallet, and I’m left miserable. The sheets wrap around my naked frame… as if the arms of an old friend, rolling their eyes and saying I told you so. But maybe I’d known. Maybe I’d seen the danger. Isn’t 11 that to be expected from aimless and wondrously handsome strangers? Perhaps, I’d asked for it. Wanted it. And gotten it. And maybe it just wasn’t him alone… who had gotten their kicks. Maybe it was me… who has spun the web to begin with.

12 13 A strange breeze whispers through the curtains of Vaughn Parker’s ninth-floor flat. It brings with it the smells and clamor of the outside world. The sweet yeasty odor of flour and sugar from a nearby French bakery along the promenade below. The roguish laughter of children running between tourists on the sidewalk. Forks and knives being dropped by a busboy at a sidewalk bistro. Foreign tongues and syllables of another language filling the air. It makes its way through an unsuspecting window open in the handsome, historic Viollet- le-Duc edifice above, filled with residents starting their day. It carries through the open window, fluttering past the silk curtains and stirring about the room. It comes like a warning. It comes like an omen. Adam’s eyes snap open as he jolts awake, covered in sweat. Hisarmsthrash againstthesilk sheetsuntilhe’spushed himself upright. He blinks away tears, wincing to find the bedroom full of light and the pillow next to him abandoned. He tries to catch his breath as he examines both sides of his hands, then curls them over to check his fingernails. No blood. It was just another dream. A noise from the open window calls his attention. What time is it? Adam sighs and leans against the cream tufted headboard that stretches to the ceiling. He glances at the empty pillow beside him, silently cursing himself for sleeping so late. The bedroom looks untouched. Like a staged showroom or a page from Insider Homes. The décor is a bit too Country-French-meets-Liberace-on- acid for his taste, with its pale Parisian-pink drapes and matching chaise in the sitting area. Fresh hydrangeas and 14 the latest French Vogue are on the coffee table. There are two matching lamps and chairs, a silk upholstered footstool, and a built-in bookshelf on the far wall with hundreds of books he’s figured out are mostly for show. A few gold frames sit before rows of hardcover books, anchored by plaques and awards Vaughn has collected during his career. Prized gold and silver statues of little bald men without eyes or expressions, given in his honor. They stand there, solid, like soldiers. Keepers of the books. The hardwood floors have been refinished, but just enough Adam correctly suspects to hold their original “rustic charm”. Then there’s the overly ornate crown molding that lines the walls like sugary piped icing, the gold leaf ceiling that makes the sun’s glare more intense during the day, and of course, an over-the-top chandelier that drips over the center of the bed. Iron and crystal daggers dangle precariously above Adam’s head. A closet sits off to his right. A large walk-in behind two French doors with gold hoop handles. He’s peeked in once to discover it half full of Vaughn’s suits and shoes. Vaughn’s only moved to Paris two months ago. Most of his everyday clothes are still in Chicago because his assistant hasn’t shipped them yet. Nondescript watercolors and pastels cover the bedroom walls. Dull artwork that might easily be found in any office waiting room, except Adam knows they must be expensive. Likely commissions from some artist he’s never heard of – not that he’s much of an art connoisseur to begin with. He knows what he likes and what he doesn’t. That about sums it up. Still, there they are. Hanging proudly in spite of his igno- rance, in the exact spots they were created to occupy.

15 Yes. Everything is just-so and in its place. In fact, the only thing out of place… is Adam. Adam Walker. Five-feet-ten inches of perfect dark chestnut hair, skin and teeth, wearing merely a pair of barely-there briefs. He’s from a small town in the middle of nowhere- you’ve-ever-heard-of, where once upon a time he would have laughed to hear he’d awake in Paris one day. Yet here he is. Despite humble beginnings and years of braces, he’s now a sophisticated beauty, dangerously handsome with bright, intelligent green eyes and all-too-kind genetics that allow him to look five to ten years younger. It’s something that’s kept Vaughn guessing and intrigued. That, and Adam’s quiet magnetism and gift for conversation. Navigating his way aroundoldermenhasalwaysbeenatalentthough. Adamhas“a way” about him, he’s been told. A way that came treacherously early and easy to him, but at a steep price. He runs a hand through his thick brown hair. Hair like his father’s. The memory of his father creeps back into his mind and he’s reminded of their last encounter. He can still smell the tobacco on his father’s breath and if he closes his eyes tightly enough, he can picture every detail, down to the dirt under his father’s nails from working around the farm. Before the memory fully resurfaces, his thoughts are cut short. Vaughn’s up and clanking around the kitchen, which brings a tiny smirk to his face. Vaughn Parker, the COO of WorldTek France is making him breakfast in bed. He sheds his black designer briefs like snakeskin and glances at the clock on the nightstand. 16 Eight thirty-seven. Where has the time gone? He composes himself, hops out of bed, and messes up the covers. The cold hardwood floor bites at the soles of his feet as he strolls through the open French doors that lead to the living area. Vaughn is at the stove, plating something, with his dark brown eyes glued to the TV in the kitchen. Thankfully, Adam notes, the kitchen and living space look far more modern than the bedroom. It’s as if Vaughn’s flat has a split personality… Nothing but moody pink fluff in the bedroom, while the kitchen houses masculine stainless steel and glass surrounding an oversized island. The living room furniture is sleek and modern without much fuss: A gray sofa with steel legs. Two matching chairs. A white mid-century coffee table. Sparse artwork on the walls and two tall matching silver lamps. A shag rug sprouts from the wood floor, making the space almost cozy. There’s a door that leads to a small second bedroom Vaughn uses as an office with only a desk and paperwork to be found there. Then, another door that hides the bathroom and a plunge tub they christened on their third night together. Every time Vaughn walks by, he remembers their splashing and the suds on the floor. Adjacent to all this is a small wrought-iron balcony. It’s barely large enough for two people but offers a decent view of the city and busy cobblestone street below. You can even see the very top of the Eiffel Tower over the stone rooftops if you lean far enough in the right direction. The sun is out, but it’s starting to rain, which reminds Adam of something his grandmother would say in this case. “The devil’s beatin’ his wife…” She’d say this lightly and shake her graying head as if the devil and his wife actually lived next 17 door and she could hear them cursing and fighting through the walls. Vaughn peels his eyes from the news as his peripheral vision catches Adam’s naked flesh saunter by. He watches Adam open the double doors and stand in the rain, baring it all on his balcony for the world to see. “The fuck are you doin’?” Vaughn’s voice is rash and scolding, but in the end, he can’t keep that shit-eating grin off his face. Like the rain, he bathes Adam’s body with his gaze. It washes from the hollow of Adam’s neck, down through the peaks of his chest and past his chiseled abdomen, dripping down to the mass of weight that hangs between his thighs. In the daylight, the faint discolored web of scars scattered along Adam’s chest and thighs are visible. Adam’s told Vaughn they’re from a motorcycle accident when he was sixteen, that he was on the back when his older cousin skidded and flipped the bike off the side of the highway. But that isn’t true. He knows the true story behind his scars is more than Vaughn can stomach. Adam tilts his head back and exhales into the sky, tasting the rain on his tongue. Vaughn’s jaw draws tight, realizing this little show might indeedbenoticedbyMs. Prouvaire, whoconstantlywatersher plantsonthenextbalcony. She’soneofthoserichwidowswho shows her age by waking up at six every morning to vacuum and clean house, all for company who never visits. Adam has only passed her in the hallway once to know what she looks like, and doubts she’d recognize him should their paths cross again. According to Vaughn, her first husband was loaded. Old money. 18 Real estate. They had six kids who grew up to be trust fund brats, scattered about the globe now. A daughter in Marrakesh who married much too young but seems happy. A son in Miami who runs a porn studio, or at least that’s the rumor. Another son in Jersey with a nasty coke habit who’s twice divorced. The rest she’s lost track of. Adam glances over at her overflowing terrace, taking in the bright blooms she cares for in place of her absent children. She’s managed to birth beauty out of seeds and dirt and sheer determination, and in return, they’ve given her something to take care of. They give the old girl something to look forward to in a house devoid of family and the rumblings of sticky- fingered grandchildren running about. Adam frowns weakly at the thought of this, then throws Vaughn a wicked smile. He leans back against the railing, daring Vaughn to come get him. Vaughn shoots Adam an annoyed glare before stomping over and snagging him inside. “Babe, come eat. Your waffles’ll get cold.” Store-bought waffles. He acts as if he’s made them from scratch. Adam smiles anyway and accepts the warm plate of dry waffles, egg whites, and what he guesses to be turkey sausage. Early on, he noted Vaughn to be especially sedulous concerning his diet. Vaughn would labor over his menu at restaurants, calculating carbs and calories as Adam idly watched, savoring his icy martini. When Vaughn does cook at the flat, everything is either low-fat-this, organic-that, sugar-free or just flat out tastes like Styrofoam. The old fitness magazines in Vaughn’s bathroom tell the story of a forty-four-year-old man desperately fighting gravity.

19 Adam thankfully has the metabolism of a teenage boy on speed. He can eat anything by the boatload and not gain an ounce. He hasnoideawherethesegoodgenescomefrom. Hefiguresthat science and the gay gods have smiled upon him, granting him favor. His muscular frame and abs aren’t going anywhere soon. Vaughn,ontheotherhand,seemstohavejumpedonthishealth kick a few years too late. Plus, the pills in his medicine cabinet tell Adam what he hasn’t offered to divulge. High cholesterol. Low libido… Men like Vaughn hold tight to their secrets, thinking their flashy lifestyles and bank accounts are evidence enough of who they are. He’s rich and powerful. What else does Adam need to know, right? The first time Adam saw him, during a press conference for WorldTek’s new Paris headquarters, he nearly dropped the remote. Vaughn has a face the camera loves. A bald head and smooth skin the color of bitter dark chocolate. Regal features, thick lips over white teeth with salt and pepper seasoning his razor- sharp beard. His large, solid build reminds Adam of an old teddy bear. Soft and cuddly in all the right spots, which is a nice way of saying he has a gut. Still, Vaughn’s attractive – and he knows it. It didn’t take long for the two to be introduced once Adam arrived in Paris. Nor did it take long for Vaughn to invite him to his flat for a nightcap that he never made and conversation that soon turned to pillow talk. Vaughn doesn’t believe in wasting time with formalities. Adam liked this about him immediately. They met at a gala at the Musée du Louvre, a fundraiser for Juvenile Myelomonocytic Leukemia, which Adam didn’t 20 realize is a thing but apparently is. WorldTek was a major sponsor for the event and Vaughn had just relocated to accept the role as the Paris division’s COO. In a sense, it was also his coming-out party, his first public event among his peers since accepting the role. Vaughn stood out in a sea of tuxedos that night. The alpha. Hated by his new male colleagues, who held tight to their bourbons and scowls, and wanted by a number of women in the room, who strutted by like glittering peacocks. Game faces on. Pouty red lips. Fuck-me pumps. Plunging gashes in their sequin gowns that threatened wardrobe malfunctions. The majority of his peers were simply curious about Vaughn. Who was this handsome American with the beautiful dark skin? The women nursed their martinis and whispered among themselves. “Handsome and no ring…?” “Must be gay.” “Sabine, you think everyone’s gay.” Meanwhile, the men were just as gossipy. “There goes Mr. Big Shot. That’s one smug motherfucker.” “What makes him so damn special?” “I hear he never loses. There isn’t a deal he can’t close.” The high six-figure offer raised eyebrows on the board, and the move had happened fast – so fast that Vaughn quickly found himself working between Paris and Chicago, and had yet to fully transition to the new flat when he met Adam that night at the gala. The spark between them was undeniable. Vaughn took Adam home that night, after Adam knocked into him, spilling a deep blood-red Shiraz down his shirt. They made it a few feet 21 in the door before getting tangled in each other and collapsing on the floor. Vaughn was forceful, almost savage in the way he removed Adam’s tux with the smell of expensive wine on his breath and 8-hour-old cologne lingering at his collar. His appetite was voracious – violent – but Adam barely flinched when Vaughn grabbed him by the throatand started to squeeze. Adam grinned back, egging him on. Thinking of all those stupid women from the party who never stood a chance. The next morning Adam awoke in his own hotel room. He assessed the damages in the bathroom mirror – a little bruising and a few inflamed scratches – then wrapped a scarf around his neck and met Vaughn at a café near Le Marais for roasted strawberry tartines and coffee. That was the beginning of their romance. After a few dates and rounds of death-defying sex, it was official. Vaughn Parker was hooked. Now, in what Adam cynically calls “the honeymoon stage” of their relationship, the two meet whenever Vaughn has a free night or weekend off, which is rare. There’s not much time for a relationship when you’re overseeing one of the largest solar technology corporations in Europe, one could argue – as Vaughn often does. Adam often callsto find him in a meeting oraboutto hop on a conference call, and it’s pointless leaving a message with his assistant. His best strategy is to wait it out and allow Vaughn to feel guilty for his own absence. In the beginning, during what Adam called the “interview period,” there were numerous canceled dinner dates and promises. There were times when Vaughn had to fly back to Chicago suddenly, without explanation. There were times when Vaughn didn’t call for days, but Adam never launched 22 complaints. He’s been careful not to exhibit a burning need for a boyfriend, something so many of Vaughn’s past conquests craved, ultimately leading to their demise. They had all been much younger and clingier – eager to enjoy the lavish lifestyle a man like Vaughn could provide. When his schedule allows, Vaughn tries to make good on his broken promises the best way he knows how. He takes pride in introducing Adam to Paris and teaching him little phrases like, “Combien cela coûte?” – which Adam pretends to not already know as they browse boutiques along the Rue Saint-Honoré. Their time together always proves exciting, and amidst the glittering dinner dates and private opera booths, Adam has discovered a different side of Vaughn Parker. Sure, he’s the only person he knows who always wears a suit (no matter where they go, night or day, but Vaughn’s reputation as a hard-edged corporate shark quickly subsides when they’re together. Vaughn makes bad jokes. He melts at the sight of kittens. He loves cartoons. He cries when people win on game shows. He really does want world peace! Remarkably, Vaughn can be incredibly goofy and affection- atewhenhewantsto; somuchsothatAdamsometimesforgets, just for a moment, that the man runs an international dynasty – with all the stress of managing thousands of employees and billions of dollars right at his fingertips. “How’d you sleep?” Vaughn’s words suddenly cut through Adam’s thoughts. He falters for just a moment, then produces a smile. “Like the dead.” 23 “You’ve barely taken a bite.” Adam frowns at the lukewarm breakfast, realizing he’s lost track of time again. He looks back to meet Vaughn’s gaze, thinking fast. “Actually, I think I’d rather have a bite of you.” He adds a wink for good measure. Vaughn grins, satisfied with this. It feels good to be wanted at his age and nice to know that he can still bed a guy like Adam. He could hardly believe his blind luck when Adam bumped into him at the gala. It felt like kismet… but there was also something theatrical about it at the time… like something Vaughn has seen in a movie somewhere. Had Adam meant to bump into him? Adam glances at the time on the stove and sneaks a hand inside Vaughn’s robe. “Mmm…” Vaughn hits him with that signature grin of his and kisses him hard on the mouth as they abandon their plates. They quickly make their way to the bedroom and melt on the expensive sheets like butter in a hot skillet. Adam unties Vaughn’s robe and allows himself to be pinned to the mattress like a butterfly under glass. Vaughn’s breath is heavy on Adam’s neck, like the weight of too much cologne. Adam closes his eyes and waits for what must come next. His heart races as he feels Vaughn’s weight shift and his lips inch closer. He thinks about how many times he’s done this. He thinks about the very first time and how difficult it all had been. Although he’d known what to do, it didn’t make the job any easier. The anticipation had been too much – so much that he’d worked himself into a frenzy. Now he knows how to stay in control. Now it all feels like second nature. The air in the room abruptly goes still, as if time has stopped. Adam senses the distance growing between them and opens 24 his eyes to find Vaughn squinting down at him, as if seeing him for the first time. “Babe, what is it?” Vaughn smiles softly and strokes Adam’s bottom lip with his thumb. “I know it’s only been a few weeks, but—” He makes a tortured face. “You mean a lot to me. I’m so glad you bumped into me that night. Even if you did ruin my shirt.” Adam manages a smile. “I think I’m falling in love with you,” Vaughn says. Adam’s breath catches in the back of his throat, but he’s careful not to react as Vaughn leans in with a stale kiss that seems to last forever. Finally, he hears the wet sound of their lips breaking apart. He exhales and opens his eyes, just as the front door explodes open with a bang.

______

“Vaughn!” They both look to find a woman standing in the doorway with her fists dug into her hips, sheer horror smeared across her twisted face. “You son-of-a-bitch!” She charges them. She grabs the closest thinginreach(thevaseofflowersinthesittingarea)andchucks it across the room! It’s clear that this is no random psychotic woman who has wandered into Vaughn’s flat and interrupted their breakfast- in-bed. This woman has a key. She also has a ring. A three-carat yellow stone on her finger that flashes at Adam like a warning sign. Not a girlfriend. Not a fiancé. 25 This is most certainly something more. Vaughn only confirms this by hopping up to cover his hard- on. He suddenly looks like a wide-eyed toddler caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Inanely trying to hide the evidence. “So, this is your new Paris client that’s keepin’ you so busy, huh?” She cocks her head to the side and rakes her eyes over Adam. “Tonya, wait, wait – baby…” He arches his eyebrows. “It’s not what it looks like.” Tonya and Adam both roll their eyes at this. Caught in the act and that’s the best he can come up with? She reaches toward the bookshelf, launching books and anything she can get her hands on in their direction. She curses the air and screams like a banshee as Adam ducks a picture frame, caught in the crossfire. Vaughn’s words are lost in the storm. Whatever he’s saying has no effect. “How fucking stupid do you think Iam?” Shepausesasifwaitingforan answer to her rhetorical question. Vaughn looks as if he might answer. Should he answer? She’s completely thrown him by showing up like this. He quietly wonders what time she left their brownstone in Chicago to get to Paris. He imagines her on the plane, fuming in first-class for hours. Now that foreign objects are no longer hurling through the air, Adam gets a good look at Tonya. She’s American. She’s beautiful. Even through the anger in her smoky eyes, he can see this. Her makeup is flawless over skin like maple syrup in the sunlight. She wears a designer dress that stops short to show off a set of killer legs and impossibly high heels. Her long dark hair ends in blonde ombre tips, curling down her back. Obviously a weave, but not 26 cheap synthetic. This is the good shit. Malaysian? Her nails are bubblegum-pink claws with rhinestone nail art. Bejeweled talons that clutch tightly at one of Vaughn’s awards. It looks heavy but ready for liftoff. Ready to make contact with one of their skulls. She’s attractive. Still, she doesn’t look like a woman you might imagine a man like Vaughn being married to. Married! She looks young and flashy. Not quite reality TV housewife material, but more like a basketball player’s wife with her oversized earrings and yellow Hermès bag hanging off her skinny arm. “There’s a naked man in our bed!” She bellows and turns her attention to Adam, pointing the bronzed statue. “I don’t know who the hell you are, but—” “Your problem is not with me,” Adam bites back. “I had no ideathiswasyourhusband!” HeglaresatVaughn,who’sshrunk two sizes by now. “Like hell your ass didn’t!” She reaches into her bag with her free hand. Shit. Did she bring a gun? She digs deep and comes out pointing something in their direction. It’s pink. Not a gun. A Taser? Itflashesatthemasstrikesoflightburstfromherpinkphone case. “Goddamnit! Enough!” Vaughn covers his face in vain, making a move to grab the phone. Tonya sneers and raises her arm with his award, set to throw. 27 “Baby,look,let’salljustsitdownandtalkaboutthis. Alright?” His palms are out, trying to calm her. He offers a smile. That winning smile again. Ugh. She flings the statue! It shoots past Adam’s head, barely missing, and bounces off the headboard with a sickening thud. She lashes out and clocks Vaughn across the face. Before he can recover, she pummels her fists into his chest. Adam takes this as his cue to leave as Vaughn tries to restrain her and himself from fighting back. Tonya’s throwing punches like a heavyweight now. Likely something she’s learned at some random cardio kickboxing class while Vaughn was at work. She never fathomed she’d have to use it on her cheating husband one day. She fights and struggles against him. Tears ruin her makeup as she screams, “How could you do this to us? Why?! Wasn’t I enough for you?!” Words like lawyer and divorce are thrown out as Adam steps into his briefs, grabbing his clothes on the way out. Vaughn shoots him a look full of embarrassment as he tries to control the situation, but Tonya is a ticking bomb that he doesn’t know how to defuse. There’s something else in his frantic eyes. It’s almost as if they’re pleading for Adam to stay, despite Tonya’s tirade. Stay, despite the fact that a wife has materialized and caught her husband with another man. His eyes plead for Adam to stay through the blast and not give up on him, despite the mess he’s made. Adam already knows how this will play out. Of course, Vaughn will do whatever it takes to appease her and keep this out of the press. Gay skeletons in the closet are 28 bad for business. He’ll pay her whatever she wants, give her their home back in the States and maybe the beach house in The Hamptons if her lawyer is any good. But he really isn’t fazed by getting caught with his pants down. Not really. Should Adam resurface in a few weeks, or even months later, he’d be right there to wine and dine him back into his life with pricey bottles of champagne and romantic French phrases. He’d fix up the flat again, and replace the broken pieces and furniture. No. He’d buy a new place for the two of them. He’d let Adam pick it out – perhaps some urban chic penthouse this time. He’d let Adam decorate and move his clothes into the other half of the closet. He’d try to pick up where they left off with frozen waffles, rough sex, and I love yous as if he’s never been caught. Adam takes one last look at the scene. Tonya is hysterical, like a wildcat. Distraught and ruined. Vaughn’s eyes fix on Adam as he holds tight to her wrists, fending her off. Adam glares back with cold green eyes and watches some- thing shift in Vaughn’s expression. He sees Vaughn doing the math in his head… calculating what will happen to his career if the pictures Tonya just took go public… calculating how much a divorce of this scale could actually cost… calculating the number of schmucks at WorldTek who’d rally for his dismissal at the first sign of a scandal… Adam watches callously as Vaughn crunches the numbers, carries the one, and concludes that he stands to lose it all. Including the man he loves. It’s the coup de grâce to the morning as Adam blinks and slams the door on his way out.

29 ______

Adam dresses in the elevator, escaping the scene of the crime. It’s an archaic freight elevator that doesn’t lend much privacy as he descends through the spiraling staircase, where a couple and their daughter are walking up, likely on their way back from church. Not knowing what else to do, he dares to wave at them, shirtlessand in hisunderwear. They’veprobablyheard Vaughn and Tonya arguing upstairs, their razor-sharp words echoing and falling down the stairway like lightning. The devil and his wife… He zips his jeans and quickly exits the building, making his way across the street and down a few blocks. Never looking back. Once out of view of Vaughn’s balcony, he stops to collect himself. Hebumsalightandacigarettefromahandsomestreet artist with kind eyes. He’s blonde and looks barely twenty, unpacking his paints and brushes for the day. He says his name is Émile and asks in hurried French if Adam wants his portrait done. There’s something familiar and beguiling in the way he asks. Adam declines but tips him anyway. He can feel Émile’s eyes follow as he strolls away, down the sidewalk of sightseers. He takes a long, much-needed drag and pulls the hood of his jacket over his head. It’s still drizzling outside. Finally, after walking a few blocks, he settles into a small pub. The wood sign that hangs over the door is peeling, and he barely makes out the name, Villes Jumelles, scribed in faded blue paint across the weathered slab of wood. It’s an inconspicuous, rundown bar that’s usually empty, apart from the locals who come for the cheap beer. Inside, it’s hard to make out the faces 30 of the shiftless shadows who drink from their mugs, eyes fixed on the football game playing over the bar. PSG is behind by two goals. Adam tears his eyes from the game with a scowl and plops down at the bar. A pencil-thin man with a wide smile slides a napkin over. He looks like a Tim Burton character with his dark oversized eyes, thin hair, and ghost-white complexion. The sleeves of his dark gray shirt are rolled up, ready to mix and concoct dangerous elixirs and potions garnished with maraschino cherries. “What can I get for you today, sir?” He asks in a bad American accent. The words come out like an ‘80s French-to-English cassette tape brought to life. It occurs to Adam that he must look a bit touristy amidst the bar’s patrons. Out of place once again. He peers at the array of bottles that line the top shelf like sparkling artifacts, and orders a vodka with St-Germain on the rocks in perfect French. It doesn’t make him feel any more like a local or do much to impress the bartender, who makes his drink without comment and promptly returns his attention to the game. “Beaucoup.” Adam nurses his drink and wonders what’s happening at Vaughn’s flat. How much will Vaughn confess about their time together? He imagines Tonya torturing the details out of him. Slow twists and jabs, demanding a full confession. Will Vaughn tell her they frequented Chartier, one of her favorite restaurants? Will he tell her Adam has a key? Will he tell her he’s fallen in love with Adam? He instantly frowns at the thought. It’s been years since anyone has mentioned the “L” word to him, and that had ended 31 sobadlyhedidn’tthinkhe’deverrecover. Theideaofsomeone being in love with him, even just hearing the words, was more than he was prepared to deal with that morning. Adam nearly spills his drink as the room suddenly erupts, cheering for a goal on the T.V. Hesighsandcloseshiseyes,pullingatthecharmattheendof his necklace – a pair of sterling silver cherries with the initials A.W. engraved on the back. He suddenly misses home more than ever.

______

Roughly an hour later, Adam hears the door open followed by a rush of cool air. He’s been daydreaming while the weather outside took a turn for the worse. The sky has finally opened, and people outside are walking by with umbrellas. The door bangs shut, and Adam watches the bartender’s expression dim. He says something under his breath, too quick for Adam to translate, and turns from the game to greet the new arrival with a fresh napkin on the bar. The room has grown quiet again, except for the occasional sports-induced uproar. Adam asheshiscigaretteintohisemptyglassandturnstosee Tonya sitting one stool away at the bar. Her curls and makeup have been defeated by the storm outside, and her clothes are completely drenched as if she’s been walking in the rain like a zombie. She stares dead ahead, eying her reflection in the mirror behind the bar. The bartender leans forward, panicked by her appearance, and asks if she’s alright, forgetting to speak English. Adam doesn’t know how much French Tonya actually knows, but 32 she seems oblivious to him. Adam clears his throat, and she comes to life, blinking out of a trance. “A shot of Patrón.” It sounds more like a declaration than a request. She tosses the shot back, and Adam watches as she dutifully reaches into her bag to produce a thick #10 envelope. She sniffs, wipes at her nose, and places the envelope on the empty barstool between them. PSG scores again, and the room screams at the television. Tonya makes a wasted attempt to fix her hair and clears her throat, “I guess one day I’ll have to explain this to the baby.” She suddenly chuckles to herself amidst the chaos and hunches her shoulders. Then the tears come, filling her eyes as she bends and starts to sob. Real tears this time. Adam quickly tucks the envelope inside his jacket without an answer. His blank stare is enough to put an end to her crying. Vaughn never mentioned it, but of course Adam knew about the baby. A newborn is just one more detail, like Tonya, that he’d conveniently left behind in Chicago. He’d abandoned his family with the rest of his clothes and belongings, promising to send for them when the time was right. He told Tonya he needed time to establish some roots. He needed time to prepare things for their arrival… Time for their designer to complete the nursery, and so on. But somewhere along the way, he’d lost track of time… with Adam. “It’s all there,” Tonya says softly with as much dignity as she could muster. He doesn’t insult her by counting it. “I thought you were gonna take my head off back there, you know.” He smirks and zips up his jacket. An ironic little smile makes its way to her lips, followed by 33 a pause. It’s clear now that they’ve reached the end of their contract. Adam’s job is done, and he’ll be onto his next client, Tonyarealizes. Sheexhalessharplyandextendsahand. “Thank you, Michael…” Her smile fades. “For everything.” It feels like a back-handed compliment in a way. A bitter- sweet show of gratitude for dismantling life as she knows it. Adam kills his cigarette in the glass of half-melted ice. It hisses before dying as he stands to leave. “Just doin’ my job.” He shrugs and firmly shakes her hand. He leaves the pub, saying goodbye to Tonya and the city of Paris. He says goodbye to Vaughn Parker and the memories they’ve created. The rough sex, the pretty lies tied up neatly with satin bows, and the man Vaughn had come to love – Michael Reis, an alias he’d given Vaughn at the beginning of his contract with Tonya. A character of sorts required for the job. He leaves it all behind as he drops the fake driver’s license from his wallet into a nearby trashcan and heads to the airport.

••• I hope you enjoyed this excerpt from my novel, Where the Boys Are, available on Barnes & Noble and Amazon. Visit christophermurphybooks.com for more information.

34 35 Nicholas says it doesn’t come easy…

With a smile so dim that I’m squinting to see. And it wouldn’t hurt to laugh a little. Like the child that you are. When I’m holding your hand and rubbing the back of your neck with cold hands that used to feel like magic.

And he does what he does… Makes it look so easy. With clammy hands, tied behind his back, and a blindfolded smile.

Upside down.

And Itry to just be, I try to break free to figure out his illusion

But it’s all just my eyes… playing tricks on me.

36 37 Darcy leans into the mirror with a determined gleam in her hazel eyes, before applying a thin sweep of mascara. Today’s the day. She’s minutes away from her first interview, after months of moping around her shoebox apartment unemployed. The restaurant she’d worked at for years closed due to COVID, but she now has a chance at her dream job. A chance to bounce back, stronger than ever! She does a quick turn in the mirror, tucking a stray strand of hair back in place, and reminds herself of a quote her mother would tell her in times like this: “She believed she could, so she did.” Her mother would always smile after saying that and add, “You can do anything you put your heart into, Darcy. Just believe.” Darcy nods into the mirror. She does believe, but she’s also prepped for this interview with flashcards and hours spent mulling over the company’s website. She even convinced her downstairs neighbor, Gra- ham, to do a mock interview with her. He was thrilled to be invited up, after weeks of idle flirting in the hallway whenever they bumped into each other, but Darcy remained focused. There’ll be time for first dates and heartbreaks later, she told herself. Right now, she’s focused on her career. Her dog, Peppa, watches from her spot on the floor as Darcy fastens her earrings and recites from memory the names of the leadership team she’s about to meet with via Zoom. It would have been easy to slip on a cute blouse over sweatpants they’ll never see on camera… It was tempting, but she’s going all out today. She’s wearing her favorite dress, 38 which she was pleased to find still fits after being in quarantine with only TV and her fridge to keep her company. She’s also wearing heels and a blazer she ordered offline to help her feel the part. It felt good to shed her slippers and yoga pants and emerge as a butterfly, ready to face the world again. It felt good to get dressed and put on makeup. Peering closer into the mirror now, she has to admit she did a good job. She gives a little rock of her shoulders with her hands resting on the curve of her hips. A celebratory dance for her efforts. She looks amazing, except… There’s something missing! She searches her vanity, laser-focused and mindful of the time, until… “Aha!” She’s found it. She grabs her Beautiful Easy lipstick and raises it in the air triumphantly, like a torch! “Now, for the finishing touch,” she declares with a twist of the case. She applies a creamy layer of “Indie Red” in satin matte. The color is rich and earthy like pomegranate seeds. She wipes a corner of her mouth with a pinky, then blots, and blows herself a kiss in the mirror. “There she is…” Darcy says under her breath. She admires theshadeofredinthelightandasenseofcalmwashesoverher. Suddenly, all the notes buzzing in her head like dragonflies fall silent. Suddenly, she’s not only ready to face the world again, she’s ready to take it on! With all the hours of preparation aside, her lips now know exactly what to say into the lens of 39 her laptop as she marches into her future. She runs her tongue over her teeth and glances at her watch. It’s time. Darcy exhales sharply and rolls her shoulders back. She looks at the woman in the mirror who’s about to ace her interview… and smiles.

40 41 Fuzzy.

Like pink lint on her cardigan when my mind is wandering in his direction. And it feels like laundry fresh out of the dryer.

Warm.

Like his hand in mine when we first meet, when his grip isn’t quite firm enough.

Soft.

Like his eyes over his shoulder, when we pass, and I look back, not expecting to meet his stare.

Frozen.

Like thunder in my stomach when I’m paralyzed, and allIcan do isthink ofyou astheworldisaflyinmyear, buzzing by with cellophane wings.

42 43 His flavor is an effervescent, B-Boy, Hip-hop adolescence that colors my days in Alizé reds and Hpnotiq blues. He drops by with the force of a thousand neutron bombs. Loves me, leaves me, and then like magic, he’s gone. Like smoke or something that perhaps never was. He speaks in that rhythmic new-ghetto slang. Dirty South, ATL country twang that makes my knees knock together and the small of my back sweat. Increasingly wet, I tingle as his tongue tickles my ear with words as thick and bold as honey barbecue sauce. Messy and careless across his lips… I tried taking him to the opera, but he’s all about that urban beat street culture. The money-green, fake bling, Air Force Ones on his feet culture… And anyway, we don’t have to ever pay to go to the movies because his cousin works at the dollar theatre on Lombarde Street. We sneak in candy and hold hands once the lights go out. Once the air around us is black and still. He’s tender then and mine, even if no one’s there to see it. Otherwise, no one ever believes it. He’s not like those other faggots he looks down on. All sugar and spice, tight pants, and navel rings that pierce their hairy bellies like lightning. Instead of makeup and fashion, he’s into manly things. Less emasculating. Less intimidating. Less like me. His breath is all cheap wine and spirits and explicit Jay-Z lyrics. He’s black - and strong - and proud - and hard - and walks tall on the streets like skyscrapers on every corner. 44 He lets me spend the night because he says I do it better than his baby momma even on her best day. Even on her best weave- tight, acrylic-right, WIC check-finally-came-in-the-mail day. It’s true. And after blue moans, the sound of the headboard knocking the wall, and calling him everything but a child of God, we lay there in the thickness of the air. Words escape his lips like green smoke as I try not to feel like the blunt of the joke. Telling myself that this is real… Needing to believe that this is real. The dawn awakes me with soft kisses on my eyelids. He’s in the kitchen making half burnt pancakes, bent over the stove like an operating neurologist. I’m nervous and hopeful with every bite, looking up occasionally to meet his empty eyes. I’m stalling as I leave… He knows it and kisses me hard as I leave. The taste is bittersweet like Japanese pears, sour grapes, and defeat. But I can’t get enough… I’m sprung. I’m weak. I need another taste just to get through the week. I come down crashing in days that never end – and when it’s over, when it passes… I know I’m better without him. But then he calls, and I find myself back where I started. Suddenly he’s back, and it all begins again. I try to resist his charm, but inevitably fall back in. His flavor is a toxic stream of highs and lows, time bombs, and afterglows that color my days in gray and faded rainbows.

45 This is the man that I love.

46 47 It’s amazing, but if you close your eyes long enough – really squeeze them back into their sockets and concentrate… you can see heaven. It comes to you slow, as if it’s just your imagination or you’ve fallen asleep without knowing, and it closes in like shadows of mauve and eggshell, fading in and out as you find yourself fighting to maintain the pressure at first. It’s like colors spun into an inkwell trying to find one another. Bone white rivers reaching for green, technicolor pastures leaving blood-red fingerprints across blue sky. Searching. The trick though is to let all this happen without meaning to. To lose the idea that you’re headed in this direction, and to utterly clear your mind. So clear that the colors are no longer there anymore, just transparent blemishes of light that you’re not thinking about. You’re just breathing… Wild, huh? But that was me one aimless night, three years ago. Lying in bed with my eyes closed and a head full of acid, my answer for everything. A distant little smile resting on the curve of my lips, now oblivious to the fact that I had been fired from my job just earlier that day. Nevermind what company I worked for or what I did from nine to five, five days out of the week to pay my bills. What’s important is that I failed the “pop drug test” administered by the company’s new management board and was dismissed. Nevermind that I had been there three years and was a star employee. Nevermind that I would be up for another promotion next month. Would you kindly clean out your desk and vacate the premises by the end of the day? 48 Two men I’d never seen before wearing almost identical navy suits told me this as my supervisor idly stood by watching through his thick magnifying glasses. Squinting as though he didn’t know me anymore. I thought my God… this is happening.

I took everything I could. Paperclips, binders, manuals, even the desktop organizer that been sitting on my desk upon my hiring – and I dared them to say anything. I’d jump onto my empty desk and make a scene. I swore I would. I‘d point my finger and boom-like lightning, damn them, curse them for firing one of the most dedicated employees that company ever had. They would live to regret this. But no one said anything to me as I left, carefully struggling to remain composure, carry all of my belongings and not drop my head.

And so I came home bitter and got depressed and high because it’s not like I had to work the next morning. It was perhaps around eleven when I was finally settling down, settle enough to lay down with a heavy sigh and just stare up at the ceiling. Plaster peeling like vanilla patches of sky, flaking away, growing dim… and dimmer as my chest rose and fell, swelled with heat and then fell again and again until everything went black. Maybe just a second passed. Maybe I blinked. Or maybe a few minutes passed, but when my eyes opened again every- thing was burning with color, like I had been staring into a light bulb for an hour. I blinked my eyes until the color faded away and just sat there, looking around my room as though I were just seeing it 49 for the first time.

It’s only happened to me once, and I think I’d be too scared to try it again on acid. Too scared that I might stop breathing all together and never open my eyes again but just drown in color. My less than spiritual roommate Tauren just laughed when I told him I’d seen heaven, that it had come to me so naturally one night and that I haven’t been the same since. “Quit doin’ all that damn acid, Ollie,” was his grand con- clusion. He gets this tough accent to his words when he’s pretending like he’s any better. “That’s what you need to do…” When he’s pretending like he’s not the one who sold me the damn acid to begin with. I could only frown from my spot in our living room, picturing him in the kitchen with his hands stuffed in the pockets of his red Adidas sweats. The cinnamon in his skin more radiant than in my own, and the hair on his head a mop of curls twisted together into chaos. “Hallucinating ‘n shit…” I heard him say, more to himself than at me. I never thought Tauren didn’t believe in a heaven – just that a burnt-out stooge like me would be the last person to have an epiphany in bed one night kite-high with the wind in my face and stars in my eyes. I saw his point though. Neither of us had gone to church in years it seemed – too many lost, misguided years to keep count of – and both of us had been wasted that night so why just one of us instead of the other? Why me at all?

______50 The homeless man at the laundromat asked me how I knew that it was heaven I was seeing. I told him it’s one of those things that you just know. Like ice cubes being dropped down the back of your shirt. At this point, almost a week had passed since my dismissal, and my days were filled with Ramen noodles and daytime TV trash. I was enthralled by Guiding Light but As the World Turns captured me. That was the week Veronica snapped out of her coma and Laura confessed to Luke that his father had actually been the biological father of their newborn child. Of course she was being blackmailed by that bitch Candice so she didn’t have much choice but to spill the beans – but I digress. I had resolved to go out that day and be productive, get some fresh air after Oprah finished talking to the latest victims of a hurricane disaster and laundry just seemed to be the most sensible thing. And so it was just the two of us there on a Thursday night, and I had told this homeless man named Ray with sad, bloodshot eyes my story because he looked just as unbalanced as I figured he’d think me to be after hearing what I had to say. I had to tell someone else. Someone other than Tauren. Ray wasn’t disturbed though. Not by my story. He just nodded, fueling my words with the curiosity of a child, asking, “What happened then? Weren’t you scared of not waking up? Then what?” He came in while I was sorting my whites from my darks, singing something as heavy as the scent of beer under his breath I later realized was a hymnal. Leaning, le-aning… leaning on the everlasting something… something, something. I couldn’t place it, but I’ve heard it before. He stopped singing long enough to nod my way and then began to unload his clothes 51 from the trash bag he had dragged in behind him, glancing up every now and then to meet my curious stare. Ray wore a torn baseball jacket with what looked like two sweatshirts underneath and black Wrangler jeans that were short on his ankles. He washed only one load, and by the time his clothes went into the spin cycle, I’d gathered that they were all he owned. I had probably passed Ray – or people like Ray – countless times on the street and never even glanced their way. Just ignored the sound of jingling coins in their styrofoam cups and empty faces… I ran out and bought us coffee from the 711 just a block away, and when I came back we talked about God and women – and why he was homeless to begin with; how he had lost everything in a fire three years ago, including his wife Rea who had been a beautician and terrible at leaving her curling iron on unattended. The fire marshal’s report listed the actual cause of the fire as having to do with some kind of wiring problem, but Ray was convinced it had to do with that damn curling iron. “She would always leave that damn thing on. But ‘er hair was always lookin’ real pretty…” Itdidn’ttakelongforRaytobelaidoffafterthat. Therereally wasn’t any logical reason or cosmic excuse for his dismissal or its timing – and he may as well have been just a name folded into a scrap piece of notebook paper, drawn from a dirty baseball cap. And so, with no home, no wife, and no job, Ray didn’t have much where else to go but down. Ilistenedtohisstoryoverthestatichummingofdryersdoing cartwheels, inhaled the sticky Downy air, and watched him stir 52 more cream into his coffee with scarred hands… Wondering if he’d make it to heaven and if Rea was already there waiting for him. “You know, I umm…” I didn’t know why I was telling him this. “I actually lost my job pretty recently.” Ray nodded as though it were obvious or he had known. “Ain’t it a bitch?” His words stretched into jagged laughter, and I forced a smile. “Whatchu gon’ do?” I shrugged. “I’m not ready to start again career-wise. I guess I really don’t know…” He shook his head, feeling my pain. “That’s why sometimes all you can do is just pray on it. Sumthin’ll turn up.” That was his solution. This was coming from a man with no home, no family, and no job. This man was telling me to pray. It sounded like something my grandmother might say. “Just pray onnit to the good lord, and he shall answer! Yes sir. Just put it in his hands.” There must have been something on my face, some crumb of doubt Ray detected. “How old do you think I am?” He asked. I looked at his hands. Black claws with yellow nails that looked to have been carved from solid oak. I wanted to say fifty. “Thirty-eight?” He laughed. “Whew boy, you too nice! Forty-six. Forty-six- years old, and you know how long I been out here?” He didn’t give me a chance to guess. “Three years.” Questions swarmed and devoured my insides but never found their way to my lips. “I’m a man with little needs these days. I do my business. I make it. And if there’s one thing Rea taught me, it’s that no one can make it alone.” He tilted his cup to his lips. Empty. I 53 wanted to run out at that moment and buy him another. The whole damn pot, with its tangerine-orange handle and scarred base but I couldn’t move. “Rea… Her daddy was a preacher. Some little country church with this God-awful choir.” He laughed and I smiled. “Lord that daddy of ‘ers gave me hell, but she dragged me every Sunday so we could sit there and listen. And he’d be lookin’ toseeIwastherewith‘ertoo–ifnot, he’d dedicate his next sermon to me!” There was that jagged laughter again, catching in his throat as he rocked back in his seat. Choking on memories of morning prayer and sour notes from the choir, I supposed. Memories of Rea with her hair done up real pretty and in her Sunday best. He came back up with tears in his red eyes, facing his reflection in a dryer window. “I’ve never stopped going.” There was a sudden tightness in my throat. I stared down at my hands. Empty. The words made their way over the lump in my throat and pried my lips apart. “I used to go…”

______

“Time to get up! Up up up!” That was the second call. There would be one more before she actually came in half-dressed with her head still done up in pink, sponge rollers and yank me out of bed. I still had a few minutes to sleep. I never understood why she insisted on dragging me to the early seven o’clock service and furthermore why she didn’t drag Dad with us. He only came to church picnics, pot luck dinners… anything the church threw that involved food. Bake 54 sales, wedding receptions… and Mom managed to drag him to a Wednesday night bible study only when he wasn’t at some “important business meeting”, doing whatever it was he did at that big office building down on Washington with the big circle driveway and huge, mirrored windows. He never came with us on Sundays though. Sometimes, I thought he only knew the Pastor’s name from Mom talking about what Pastor Bell said in church about this or that and what a powerful sermon it was. Mom always managed to repeat Pastor Bell’s exact words, his emphasis on certain words like de-vil and mer-sah, adding a few of her own sometimes until she was eventually going off on her own tangents, but Dad never knew the difference. “Boy! Get up now. I’m not playin’ with you. You know we need to swing by and pick up your grandmother now get up!” I threw my Michael Jordan covers off me and swung my legs onto the floor. I didn’t look to acknowledge her, but I knew she was peeping through the door to make sure I was out of bed. I could smell her designer imposter Elizabeth Taylor White Diamonds body spray and just yawned an, “Okay! I’m up!” She shot me a look like, “I thought so!” And teetered off. “Grab a bowl of cereal!” I heard her say. We must have been running later than our usual late. I stretched and shifted my weight over to my closet, peered inside, and pulled out the suit granny had given me for my birthday two years ago. Navy. She would be glad I was wearing it. I pulled together a dress shirt and matching tie my mother would be sure to redo no matter how comfortably I tied it and laid them across my bed, hoping the suit would still fit.

______55 “Hey T? When was the last time you went to church?” Tauren stopped reading and looked up from his spot on the sofa long enough to shoot me an agitated look. “What?” I had just come back from the laundromat where my conver- sation with Ray had left me antsy and unsettled. “When was the last time you went to church?” “Easter. Like eight years ago.” He returned to his book. Lies My Teacher Told Me by James Loewen. He didn’t even bother to ask why. He was never up to talking about church or religion. “This is a good book. You should read it when I’m done.” He’d just change the subject. I said I would and left him with his book, wondering, “When was the last time I went to church?” It took a second to recall, but God… was it really over twelve years ago? Suddenly,Icouldfeelthatnecktiewrappedaroundmythroat again and the quarters meant for the collection plate weighing down my pockets. Suddenly, I realized why I hadn’t been in so long, and it was like tasting the peppermints that my grandmother used to give me in church to keep my mouth busy and quiet all over again. I used to go every Sunday, sit in the front pew with my mother on one side of me and my grandmother on the other and feel nothing. Granny would rock back and forth in her seat muttering stiff cries of thank you Jesus, thank you Jesus – as if it hurt to hold back the tears, and I wouldn’t be moved. My mother would throw and wave her hands in the air and cling onto mine when it was time to pray, squeezing it tighter than she might have realized. Her ring cutting into my fingers, but it was okay because I didn’t feel a thing. 56 Maybe it was because we sat in the front pew, but Pastor Bell always seemed to be looking at me. He was like one of the paintings you see in museums where the eyes follow you no matter where you’re standing, only he’d jump up and down screaming behind his podium with sweat running down his face and into his eyes that he could never wipe away with his handkerchief quick enough. The choir in their navy and gold robes would rise up behind him and sing his blind praises with their tambourines in hand and voices tilted to the sky. The congregation would join in singing amazing grace, how sweet the sound that saved a wretch like me. I once was lost, but now I’m found… was blind, but now I see – only it didn’t sound like that at all. Those weren’t the words, and women in their gaudy hats would march out into the aisles going into fits that escalated into all-out, lord-have-mercy conniptions until they eventually fainted like dead peacocks… and I’d just sit there sucking on my peppermint and feel nothing. I went to my room and sat at the foot of my bed. The laundry would have to wait until tomorrow to be hung up. The lamp on my nightstand filled the room with a glow that whispered warmly in my eyes and brought a weak smile to my lips. I buried it quickly and thought of heaven, and if I had ever truly believed in it before catching a glimpse of it that night. I thought back to when I was eleven, wondering if I had really believed in anything at that age – especially God. It wasn’t likely. But the catch is that even though I sat in church and didn’t feel anything… I had wanted to. I realize that now. I had wanted to put my arm around my grandmother and to squeeze my mother’s hand tight in return, eyes closed and 57 knowing that they’d be proud. Thank you Jesus, lead him on the right path, amen. I felt the walls closing in, the light melting into the dusty corners of my room. I rested a hand on the hollow of my throat and swallowed. I wanted to believe. I felt myself separate into red, green, and blue, separating in opacity as I fell backwards… like pages in a book being thumbed in slow motion. Each page, an animated slide of a little boy pulling at his necktie. We lost each other in the dark, as I allowed my eyes to fall defeated and close. Amen.

______

I plucked a pair of dress pants from the foot of my bed and stepped into them one leg at a time. They were a little snug, but I managed. I buttoned my shirt and took a deep breath before bringing the tie to my neck. Over, up, around and under, this the way we tie our tie. I glanced at the alarm clock on my nightstand. Six twenty-nine. I hadn’t been up this early in aeons it seemed. I thought about breakfast. French toast or maybe some cereal but there was no time. I pulled my shoulders into my jacket and straightened my tie, pressing it flatagainstmystomach. Iraisedmychininfrontofmydresser mirror and looked for any scruff I might have missed while shaving. Nothing. Just a few nicks. Iwalked down the hall, my new shoes squeaking and tapping on the linoleum floor without mercy. I winced at each step, fearing they would awake Tauren as I made my way to the 58 front door, but they didn’t. “Spiffy…” Tauren nodded, quite already awake it turned out, as I passed him on his way to the bathroom. “Got an interview?” I looked back, meeting his sandman eyes and long pajama bottoms with a dim smile. “Something like that.” He nodded slowly, one hand on the bathroom door and the other fidgeting by his side. “Well good luck…” “Thanks.” I nodded, meaning it. “I’m a little nervous, but I think I’ll be fine.” “I’m headed to the gym in a bit. Then there’s a PR seminar Alpha Phi Alpha’s hosting, but let me know what happens, yeah?” “I will.” I was leaving. I turned and reached for the front door. “I’ll see you later.” “Yeah.” I heard him say. “You’ll be fine. Just remember, eye contact and sit up straight.” “K. Thanks.” “Yeah – and don’t do that thing you do when you get jittery – that thing you do with your mouth.” I turned back and made a face. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” “You grind your teeth. Don’t grind your teeth. Just go and be yourself.” “Got it.” I tensed, hand on the doorknob. “I will. Thanks.” “And don’t forget to smile – they love that – and one last thing…?” I turned back and shot him an exasperated look. “Make sure you have enough change for the collection plate.”

59 60 He’s all crocodile smiles and airs that beguile the most unsus- pecting men. Eyes that bewitch and hips that tick and switch through crowded bars littered with laughter and cigarette smoke. His aura is a misty jade fog that throws shade like my worst mood. Everything’s darling and sweetheart until the party stops. The fluorescents in the club flicker on and Adonises become gargoyles in the unforgiving light. Hissing and cowering while angels fall from concrete heights. It’s the life. Tragically beautiful boys mixed with jealousy and spite. Equal parts. Shake well. And you’ve got a toxic blue cocktail. He orders two on the rocks and chases it down with my discerning glare. Then, one cocktail too many, and he’s derailed. One kiss too many, and I’ve failed. One touch in the right place… and my knees give in. I go from feeling high to low to practically glowing within my skin. My lips curl as you work your magic. Loving and hating you at the same time. But you’re not to blame. You can’t help but hurt me. And if anything, the fault is mine. I get off on this feeling – the anger that will course through my veins. The power I’ll be left with when I “discover” your hidden fangs. I’ll cry myself to sleep and wake up wondering how it all happened. By then you’ll be gone, 61 dismissed and wondering what you did wrong… I’ll pick up the pieces, like I always do and numb my heartbreak. Until I’m over you.

62 63 How far is space? How far is space when I say I need space? When I’m avoiding you at all costs, as childish to you as that may seem. How far do I have to remove myself from the situation? To feel control, the upper hand pressed tightly to my throat. How long do I have to stay away for you to break, to make myself feel good? I’ve won. Hooray! Good for me. Now doesn’t that feel better? How far is space? From your stare. From your patronizing. From your cautious footsteps around me. Tip toe and weak at the ankles. How far is space when I’m still so afraid of losing you but calling your bluff? Knowing somewhere inside that you’re afraid of losing me too. Or are you? How far do I have to walk away, turn my back, and walk away before you realize that you’re losing me? Before you realize that I may not come back. Already gone. How long can I stay away?

64 65 There’s this thing… about me. Really something you should know. If you look a little bit closer. You might see it – and you’ll know. You’ll wonder how you ever missed it. “It’s so obvious!” You’ll say. You’ll swear it’s, “No big deal.” Then neatly… sweep the topic away.

66 67 Once upon a time, in the enchanted village of Philadelphia, lived an unlikely hero in blue jeans. A hero who, on this particular day, found himself on a quest of epic proportions… Laundry. This was the extent of excitement. No duels or arch-villains to foil today. No noble deeds or legacies to fulfill at the moment. No wrongs to avenge or wars to lead. The city’s lukewarm weather and listless sunset had reduced him to counting quarters and lugging two weeks’ worth of musty clothes on foot to finally wash. He sat watching his clothes tumble within one of many noisy dryers, becoming a collage of red and gray fabric, blue jeans, and the occasional widowed sock. Thegrungyspacewasnearlyemptywiththeexceptionof a few regular college kids, a middle-aged woman with her two restless children, and an elderly man eating sunflower seeds and mindlessly watching tennis through the static of the TV hung over the detergent dispenser. He recognized the college kids from before. Two giggly girls, likely roommates, folding their delicates consisting of pink cotton candy thongs among other too small garments designed to make grown men weak. Three seats down sat the Psych major who was always doing homework and sneaking glances their way. In the middle of all thissattheelder,whomhehadn’tseenbefore. Thegrimeunder his nails and his dirty camouflage jacket provoked conflict in the minds of everyone. Was he there to do laundry? Or was he some sort of homeless tennis fanatic merely stopping in to watch the game? Everything about the Avoca Laundromaxx felt dated and oddly comforting, like a dumpster-dive rescued recliner that manages to hold you in all the right spots – as if still trying to prove its worth. The floor was a sticky checkerboard of 68 orange and tapioca tiles. The walls were the most boring of beiges with handwritten laminated signs sporadically placed proclaiming, “No Fumar!” (No Smoking! and “Sobrecargue las Máquinas” (Do not overload the machines!. Our hero sat Indian style in one of the curvaceous ‘70s- inspired orange chairs facing the row of humming dryers. He wore jeans, ripped at the knees, leather caramel-colored flip flops that once looked expensive, a vintage t-shirt and a gray hoodie that hid a metro-fro of twists and curls underneath. His honey-colored hands rested in his lap with a book he’d read twice. Once in college over Christmas break and once as a means to keep his mind occupied and off of Trey, the sultry artist who had painted him nude countless times and broken his heart all in one stroke. It was normal for him to retreat into a book after a messy breakup. Today, he just felt like reading Maya Angelou though. He could almost hear her earthy, motherly voice through the pages as his eyes skimmed over his favorite parts. He had no quarrels with rereading books or seeing movies twice – or even alone, in fact. Most of his life felt as if he’d lived it alone anyway which, when you think about it, is unfortunate for a so-called hero. Butch Cassidy had the Sundance Kid. Batman had Robin. Even Robin Hood had his band of merry men. But again, he wasn’t out to save the world today. Just finish the goddamn laundry. He sighed, closed his book and produced his iPod, as if by magic. Over the jazz and steady bassline streaming through his ears, he watched the tennis fan idly spit sunflower seed shells into his free hand. He watched the blonde co-eds smiling and chatting mutely as they folded camisoles and colorful panties that resembled eye patches. He watched as the two children

69 buzzed around their mother who was enthralled in her People magazine. She wore a pair of pink capris with a Peg Bundy- inspired top. Her chestnut hair remained in curlers with a bright silk scarf tied tight behind her ears that she’d bought at thecornerbodegaafewblocksaway. ShelookedlikeaLucinda, or a Marita, or maybe even a Lucinda-Marita, he thought. She had strong Latin features that had passed to her children, along withherdarkhairandpeanutbuttercomplexion. Shesatthere, doing her best to ignore them. The boy bounced up and down in his blue shorts outfit with his tiny hand stretched out while the girl swayed sweetly in her yellow dress. Compared to her rambunctious brother, she looked like a perfect princess. He watched as Lucinda-Marita scowled and produced two dollars from her knockoff Louis Vuitton purse to satisfy them; her brown eyes never leaving her magazine. The children rushed to the far vending machine where they gawked and pointed at the salt-and-sugar-filled treasures within. Some- how, after rising to his toes, the boy managed to insert both bills correctly on the first try and push the right combination of buttons… Success! The machine released two matching bags of candy that the children accepted with unbridled excitement. The boy gobbled down his entire bag like a hungry ogre while the princess took her time, delicately admiring each Skittle one by one for its colored shell before they disappeared into her mouth. Rose Red. Sunny Yellow. Emerald Green. Suddenly, without warning, the ogre snatched the bag of 70 candy from the princess, held it triumphantly in the air, and ran! The princess chased behind in her starched dress as she grasped for her stolen treasure. The ogre ran into the maze of washers, zipping in and out of the aisles as she pursued, hot on his heels. Finally, out of breath, she cornered him near the back row of dryers. She held out her hand and yelled something that our hero couldn’t hear over his earphones. It might have been Spanish, which might have eluded his elementary vocabulary of the language anyway. The ogre’s eyes went dark, realizing he was trapped. Then a smile slowly surfaced as he ripped at the bag’s opening. The princess watched in sheer horror as the ogre leaned over the bag, opened his mouth, and with remarkable aim allowed a long stream of spit to drip inside. Adding insult to injury, he grinned… and shook the bag. Our hero quietly removed his earphones. The princess’ bottom lip quivered in disbelief as the ogre handed herthebagwith asmirk. Herbig doeeyesglossed over as tears began to build. She muttered something then threw her head back and wailed, filling the Laundromaxx with the sound of one thousand banshees singing. The ogre smiled at the sound of her anguish. The sound was music to his ears. Tears fell from the eyes of the princess like lightning as she clutched the bag of candy and ran to their mother with the evidence. Lucinda-Marita stopped reading long enough to huff and roll her eyes. “I’ve told you both to sit down and stop runnin’! The next one to come over here cryin’ is gonna get it! You want somthin’ to really cry about?” She mumbled something in Spanish to the princess then and dismissed her to finish reading about the ongoing Jennifer/Brangelina saga. The princess shuffled away dejected and still holding her 71 treasure, now in ruins. Colors bled inside of the bag, no longer the beautiful rainbow she had longed to taste. The ogre reveled in her misery for a moment before turning to find our hero towering over him. His hood remained on his head casting an eerie shadow over hisface. Hestoodatanaverage5’9”buttotheogreheappeared as a giant! A giant in worn Steve Madden flip flops. “You shouldn’t pick on your sister.” He narrowed his eyes at the little ogre. “She will be taller than you one day.” “I not scared of no-body!” The ogre stood on his toes and made a face, baring his crooked teeth. Our hero crossed his arms and tilted his head. “Little boys like you grow up to be men with a propensity for violence. Know that?” “What’s po-pensy?” “Pro-pen-sity. It means you’re gonna wake up forty years from now bald, divorced, and in anger management if you keep acting like a bad muchacho.” The little ogre frowned as our hero swiped his bag of candy and glared at the nutrition label. The sugar content alone was enough to make him dizzy. “One day, you’ll both understand whatemptycaloriesare.” Hegrimacedastheprincesscuriously drew closer. “Give it baaack!” The ogre fumed. “Give back my foh-king Skittles!” “Fuck-ing. It’s pronounced fuck-ing. And you shouldn’t swear at your age. Either of you.” He winked at the princess who stared back. The ogre pounced for the candy but missed and said, “Give it baaaaack!” “I would,” he sighed then, as if what came next would hurt 72 him more than the angry ogre. “I really wish I could, but your sister’s got a score to settle.” Our hero shrugged, glared at the ogre, and promptly dumped the entire bag onto the floor, sending a flood of rainbow candy scattering in all directions across the dirty linoleum. The ogre stomped his foot in anger, balled up his fists, and let out a mighty roar as tears streamed down his face. Our hero handed him the empty bag with a half smile and the ogre went running to Lucinda-Marita, crying uncontrollably. The princess remained standing before her hero, swaying sweetly again in her starched yellow dress. A smile slowly illuminated her face as her brother cried in the background. The ogre’s cries turned to screams as Lucinda-Marita kept her promise by removing her belt and swiping at his legs, livid that she’d been interrupted yet again. The princess’ smile shifted into something dark; something bittersweet and fiendishly satisfied. Our hero watched this change in her, quietly pondering over what future she may have under her mother’s less-than- watchful eye. As if reading his mind, the princess smiled and skipped off, deliberately stomping on each piece of the ogre’s candy that got in her way. “Good girl,” he smirked. The day’s tale may have proved just a small victory for the little guy – but it was a day that the little princess would never forget and a day that our hero would always think back to. That hero was me. Caleb Porter. Nice to meet you. Again, I’m an unlikely hero since happy endings rarely happen to me. My own story has been a comedy of errors 73 and cautionary tales that’s left me mostly leery and, let’s face it, cynical of anything that remotely resembles a happy ending. Surely, there’s a catch, I always think. Or surely the plot will take a sudden nasty turn and I’ll be forced to close the book in disgust and hurl it across the room. My foster mother, Delores, spoon-fed my sister and I fairytales full of dragons being defeated, princes rescuing princesses from towers, and spells being vanquished with a (very G-rated, watered-down) kiss of true love. My sister, Caren, would hold her breath and listen with wide eyes while I scrunched my eyebrows, wondering why princes never rescued princes in these stories. And why everyone in the pictures was either blonde or had blue eyes. These questions never plagued Caren, who was often too consumed with being a girl. She’d do things that completely baffled me like: baking pies out of Play-Doh… or having feverish gossip sessions with her Cabbage Patch dolls, who could never get a word in of their own. Caren’s favorite pastime was undoubtedly dressing up in Delores’ knockoff jewelry and skyscraper heels. She’d stand there, wobbling, draped in countless strings of pearls and shimmering cubic zirconium diamonds and announce that she and her dolls were requesting my company at “dinner” in her room. She’d been cooking all day. “I’d love to, sister,” I’d reply. “But I’m at war! You should go back to your room and lay low ‘til it’s over,” I’d advise and return to my G.I. Joes. Indeed, a heated battle was in full throttle and the enemy line of plastic soldiers was finally starting to crumble. The moment was critical. I couldn’t leave now. I figured the dolls would eventually get over it. If not? Tough shit. 74 My sister and I were very normal children if there is such a thing as normal. I try to avoid that word when I can, but in this case it fits. If you can get past the fact that we’re adopted twins, abandoned by our recovering/lapsing drug-addict of a mother – and if you can overlook that we were consequently raised within the most literal, textbook interpretation of what early childhood should be… then sure. We were normal kids. Our childhood was full of all the things you’d probably think natural and appropriate: Birthday Parties. Family Vacations. Trips to the Zoo. Oh, and “movie nights” (although Caren or I would inevitably fall asleep if the movie wasn’t animated or fast enough to hold our attention. We frowned at long, complicated plots that didn’t involve talking animals or bad special effects. Often I’d create an excuse to leave the couch and not return. I’d retire to the solitude of my bedroom with its green walls to rally troops for the next war – or lie in my racecar bed and stare at the ceiling fan, allowing my mind to drift away into the furthest depths of my imagination. I can explain the green walls by the way. It was an unsightly Astroturf-green I saw by chance in Pleasants Hardware and decided I couldn’t live without. It reminded me of acid-green Nickelodeon slime. I remember the slow look of horror in Delores’ dull gray eyes when I presented the paint swatch and she realized she would spend the next two days up to her elbows in it. Our closets remained full of new clothes through the con- stant change of seasons and toys that we’d lose interest in the moment a new one flashed across the TV screen. Caren owned enough Barbies to start her own army of ABS plastic breasts and synthetic hair to defeat my soldiers – although the thought never occurred to her. Meanwhile, I gravitated to anything 75 with wheels and a remote control. We were given staggeringly gender-specific toys, with the only exception I recall now as being the Polaroid camera I received one unsuspecting Christmas. For months, I took pictures of everything: Candid shots of a classmate picking her nose. Delores enthralled in her favorite soap opera, eating cordial cherries. A dead bird in the back yard. My reflection in the bathroom vanity, eerily smiling back. I was convinced my photos were nothing short of artistic genius. Thewholetwinnoveltywasabitobnoxiousgrowingup. The most evident factor being our names: Caren. Caleb. Caleb and Caren. Or most people simply resorted to calling us “The Twins”. As if we were on our own, nameless. Or a band, like “The Monkeys” or “The Beatles”. I can’t blame anyone but our mother for this tragedy. Our foster parents, Delores and Joseph Porter were a nice, middle-aged, Christian couple who both grew up in Toronto, marriedyoung, andthankfullydidn’tdressussimilarlyorforce us to share everything. They moved to the states when Joseph accepted a job at a private school. Being a teacher is the only thing he’s known. Science. This explains my extensive and utterly useless knowledge of the periodic table, along with all the science fair medals in storage I can’t bring myself to throw away. Joseph could turn anything into a science project, even the most mundane tasks like making dinner. One evening while making spaghetti: “What is the boiling point of water, Caleb?” “100 °C. 212 °F,” I recited. “That’s absolutely right! Now, we add salt to the water for taste but what does it do for the properties of the water?” Joseph asked. “Does it make the water boil faster or slower?” 76 I thought for a moment, staring at the blue flames licking the bottom of the pot. “Slower.” Joseph sharply raised an eyebrow. “Slower. Are you sure?!” He was trying to throw me off. “I’m sure. The salt raises the boiling point.” Joseph only smiled and began to chop a green pepper. I asked once, during one of my frequent inquisitive tantrums, how Caren and I came to live with them. I was shocked (and slightly perturbed) to learn that God had brought us into the Porter household. Delores explained this as though it were common knowledge and some sort of divine incident. As if God himself had literally left us on their doorstep one fateful night. I imagined Delores suddenly sitting up in bed, big curlers in her copper blonde hair, asking… “Joe, did you hear that?!” Joseph tussled on his side of the bed and mumbled incoher- ently. “It sounded like a knock at the door.” He snorted, “It’s prob’ly just the wind.” An answer fitting of a horror movie. Delores jumped out of bed, slipped into her faded pink robe and painfully tiptoed down the squeaking stairs of their bungalow. I imagined she might have thought to grab something. One of Joseph’s golf clubs. A knife perhaps. Something in case it wasn’t just the wind outside their door at two in the morning. Atthedoor,shehadto stand on herredpolished toesto look out the peephole. At first glance there was nothing. Just the still blackness of the night outside, staring back at her. She sighed and turned to leave when she suddenly heard it again! Three distinct knocks on the door that rattled her, 77 causing her heart to flood with adrenaline and nearly eject from her chest! Again, she wished she had a blunt object to aid her. Yet, with all the bravery she could muster, she grabbed the doorknob, twisted the lock and snatched the door open in one swift breath. Itmighthavebeenamonsterontheirporchifthiswasafairy tale or a horror flick but according to Delores it was just us. Bundled in matching blankets on their porch. Sound asleep. She told me all this during bedtime with watery eyes that threatened to spill over and ruin her good Mary Kay mascara. There was a moment of brief silence as she collected herself and gave me a sugary smile. “So who knocked on the door?” I asked. She faltered for a moment. “What, honey?” I was always challenging her like this. Catching her off guard with questions four-year-olds aren’t supposed to ask. “Who knocked on the door?” I insisted. Shesquirmed butmanaged to find awayoutofthisone. She announced it was late and I should go to sleep or something and much to her relief I forgot to ask again. It wasn’t until my middle school years that she finally caved and disclosed the dry details of our adoption. The highlights leading up it being her faulty uterus and a growing maternal impatience to have children. She spoke of internal clocks, motherly instincts, and tedious legal proceedings that made the whole God theory seem even more juvenile and fabricated than I’d originally suspected. I asked a lot of questions about my biological parents after that. Most of which, neither Delores or Joseph could answer. As sharp as I was for my age, I couldn’t grasp why they had abandoned us. 78 Here are the facts: My father? A ghost. No paper trail. No known relatives. No knowledge of his identity. My mother was born Juanita Wilson of Burlington County – and might as well have conceived Caren and I immaculately. She bounced between Virtua Memorial Hospital and Marlton’s Rehabilitation Hospital (where I imagine she spent countless sweat-soaked nights, crashing. She liked to sing and a nurse there once informed me that I have her nose. I’ve also heard that she looked like a young Bernadette Stanis from Good Times, which was encouraging. (Dyn-o-mite! Once, my mother escaped the hospital by “bribing one of the male doctors on the night shift.” (Bribing him with what though? Had there been an affair? Could that doctor be our father? She gave birth to us shortly after her great escape from the big house. There was a bad storm that day that knocked out a few of the power lines near the hospital. The details get fuzzy after that. I have records that show she was admitted back to Marlton in the summer of ’86. Somehow, she wound up in New York where she checked herself into a shelter. Apparently, whenever she fell off the wagon, she didn’t just fall. She’d cut it up with a razor and promptly snort it up her nose afterwards. She went off the grid then for a few years – surfacing only briefly back in Burlington where she died two months later in June of ’94 from a heroin overdose. I don’t have any memories of her. Only stolen hospital records and a stained copy of her death certificate that’s threatening to fall apart at its folds. Back then, as I searched for pictures of our mother and poured over remnants of her handwriting – looking for hidden clues or meaning, Caren never took any serious interest in uncovering her history. To Caren, the past was just bones better left to fossilize. And 79 while I dug to discover the roots of our family tree, Caren was busy discovering boys. (A discovery I would later unwittingly stumble upon too.) This random, genetic variant on my part may indeed be the only parallel between Caren and myself. Dr. Edvin Bergstrom did a somewhat-famous-but-severely- underrated-for-its-time study of twin behavior in 1968 which will now serve to prove my point. For your consideration, I present Bergstrom’s Subjects A & B: the Styne Twins. Ta-dah! Ashley and Andrew Styne are a quintessential case study of dizygotic twin behavior-defying genetics at its finest. Born three minutes apart and sharing only 50 percent of their genes – unlike monozygotic (identical) twins who reportedly share 100 percent, the twins instantly showed a connection that rebelled against textbook cases, delighting Dr. Bergstrom and often alarming their panicky mother. Much like Delores, Vera Styne, at the not-so-tender age of thirty-seven, suddenly found herself a new mother. The difference was that God had left her a little more on her doorstep than she’d bargained for. Without the slightest apprehension, Vera confided in Dr. Bergstrom that the whole thing had been a terrible accident. “It’s my ex husband’s fault,” she said, seven months pregnant and with a straight face. She had only recently learned that the baby inside of her tightening belly was in fact two. Two innocent mistakes that she was now unprepared to give birth toonherown. Her obstetrician had sent the referral, explaining that the twin study paid well and was relatively unobtrusive. Although she needed the money, Vera had other motives in joining the study. Motives that became evident in her first 80 interview with Bergstrom… “Vergil? My ex husband?” She looked for a sign that Bergstrom was following her. He placed his ballpoint pen between his nicotine-stained teeth and nodded, slightly dis- tracted by her Louisiana accent. It bent most of her sentences out of shape until they sounded like questions, even when she didn’t mean for them to. “Sonofabitch keeps comin’ back sayin’ he miss me and I always fall for it?” She sighed, then smirked, and patted her stomach. “He got me good this time!” Bergstrom politely smiled and stroked his graying mustache. Vera thought he looked more like a mad scientist than a doctor. “I’m worried,” she said then, giving him the first glimpse of her neurosis. “Vergil was a twin. There were complications though?” She nodded and talked faster. “He and his brother got tangled? They had to resuscitate the babies but only Vergil came back.” Her eyes grew wild then, spooked by her own story. “Vergil ain’t ever been right. He say he feels like another part of him is still out there floatin’ round. Doin’ things.” Bergstrom was quick to point out that her babies were healthy and assured her, in that doctorly way that had become second nature despite his doubts, that the delivery would go smoothly. It wasn’t until she was on the table, spread eagle and hearing both babies cry that she believed him of course. And so it began. With a watchful eye, Vera mothered the twins while Bergstrom lingered in the background like a surrogate father. He accompanied them to all of their doctor visits, taking notes while Vera nervously watched the twins receive vaccines and lollipops. At the playground, Vera would light up a Marlboro on the park bench and watch the twins while Bergstrom quietly observed them playing from the eye of

81 his video camera. At night, Vera read them bedtime stories and fairytales while Bergstrom fought the urge to rudely glance at his watch, anxious to observe their sleep patterns. His findings were indisputably groundbreaking back then. And while he became consumed in the controversy surround- ing them, Vera grew secretly glad to have him around. He was becoming the man in their lives. However silent and unobtrusive, he was always there with his notebook, video camera, and mad scientist mustache. And the twins? As infants, Bergstrom observed that they always slept in the same position – even in separate cribs. When onelearned anew skill, theotherseemed toinstinctually pick up the same skill on their own – as if they shared the same brain. To their mother’s horror, they were both colicky and developed wheat allergies, which they thankfully outgrew. Time went on, the study continued and the twins developed their own secret language as toddlers. The bond thickened and in high school the two finished each other’s sentences without effort. As they grew older, Bergstrom even began to record cases of extrasensory perception between the twins that most scientific journals had yet to report among fraternal twins. I won’t bore you with the barrage of his documented findings butI’lllistthehighlights,whichgaveVeraStynereasontocurse her ex husband. She remained convinced that his spooky dead- twin genetics had somehow tainted their offspring – and there was nothing Bergstrom could say to convince her otherwise. Once: Ashley let her best friend, Lauren McKay, drive her beat-up LeSabre in a doomed effort to teach her to drive. Perhaps inevitably, Lori backed into a light pole and the twins missed a week of school due to back spasms. Andrew was never in the car. 82 One day: Andrew sprained his ankle at football practice while, more than fifteen miles away at home, Ashley developed an inexplicable limp that lasted just three hours. The twins developed a medical history of sharing everything from Andrew’s headaches to Ashley’s menstrual cramps on oc- casion. A biological phenomenon that suggested a connection Caren and I have never come close to having. I’ve found myself wondering if we’re even related. Could the adoption papers be wrong? Was there more to Delores’ unscrupulous bedtime story? Or were there holes in my own investigation? The need to cling to what little was labeled as my biological family trumped any room I had for doubt. Instead, I focused on the larger picture. I chose to believe that the answers were still out there, just waiting to be discovered. So I began a search for the missing pieces… “You know it’s pretty pointless try’na find him,” Caren told me once. I watched as she stretched her curvy legs across Delores’ new glass coffee table and opened a fresh bottle of pearl pink nail polish by Mary Kay. The bottoms of her feet were slightly gray from walking around the house. She rested them on a stack of bridal magazines she bought at Walmart and carefully assessed the task before her. Caren paints her nails with the laser precision of a cardiothoracic surgeon. I watched as her face grew serious. Her perfect brows drew tight as she bit her lower lip and went to work, delicately holding the tiny brush with steady fingers. “He’s still our father.” “He could be dead,” she said with what looked like a smirk. “Or he could be alive! We’ll never know if we don’t look for 83 him.” She mumbled, “It’s not like he’s looking for us.” “You don’t know that.” Caren rolled her eyes this time and reached for her big toe, giving the nail a heavy coat that threatened to drip and ruin the entire job. “You’re chasing a ghost.” She may have been right. In fact, I knew she likely was. Instead of arguing my point I just frowned and watched her primp while John Coltrane played his saxophone in the background. It was her favorite CD, next to Bessie Smith and Buzz Busey. All staples any self-respecting jazz fanatic would have in their collection. She wore a faded yellow sundress she found at a yard sale and her hair was pulled back into a neat ponytail. Her golden mocha skin glowed from the cocoa butter she was constantly applying and her lips were as shiny as glass from the layers of lip gloss she lacquered on throughout the day. Even at twenty-two she had a girlish quality about her that still baffled me. I found myself wondering where it rooted. I observed her profile, watched her mannerisms and wondered if our mother had looked like Caren at this age. “I just thought you might want him at the wedding,” I said with a shrug. With trembling fingers now holding the brush, she looked up only long enough to reply with a frown… then returned to the job at hand. It was this sort of exchange that kept us largely divided. My sister and I have had our ups and downs, including a particular catastrophe that’s left us not speaking to one another for years (More on that later.). We silently agreed to kept discussions of our father between ourselves, never allowing Delores or 84 Joseph to overhear. The notion alone of searching for our real father felt like treachery. It felt as if we were cheating on them – plotting an escape back to our shadowy past, back to the doomed life they purportedly rescued us from. I kept my wildest ideas to myself, never sharing my thoughts of what kind of man our father might be. Not even with Caren. I had it all figured out though. My imagination told me that he was a man of great intelligence. He did something important, something skillful with his hands. Perhaps a doctor. Maybe a musician. He was an everyday hero of some kind – a real hero – who didn’t see it that way. He had a quiet way about him like Caren does. But he was inquisitive, like me. Always full of questions. Always in search of answers. I imagined he was tall, dark-skinned with full lips like my own and a good grade of hair that explained my curls. He walked with purpose and talked like a professor. Every word had an impact when he spoke and people paid attention when he walked into a room… he was a man of great distinction! Then again, he might be a janitor. The possibilities are endless but there’s one certainty I continue to relish in. He may not live up to any of the things I’ve imagined for so many years – but he would have answers if I found him alive. Finding my father is perhaps the one thing that would warrant a happy ending. There are times, few and far between, when I suddenly feel close to him – but not in that Pinocchio/Geppetto father/son way you’re probably thinking. As strange as this may sound, I can actually feel his presence fromtimetotime–which(Iknow) sounds odd being that I’ve never met him. Still, the feeling is undeniable. Like that feeling you get when you walk into a 85 room and somehow know that the TV is still on, even though the cable box is off. You can still feel the electricity hanging in the air. It’s like that, only magnified. It feels like he’s suddenly standing next to me. Or in the next aisle of the grocery store. Or perhaps in the car that just drove by. It comes in sporadic bursts of energy on my day’s radar. My heart floods with adrenaline. The hair on my arms stand up, as if from static, and my mind switches focus and locks on this idea that he’s suddenly nearby! Could he be the stranger about to pass me on the street? Could it be that he is thinking of me somewhere miles away and we’re somehow psychically connected? Or could it be that this feeling emerges at places he’s been before, placeswithtracesofhisenergyremaining? Likeaphysiological imprint that my senses react to. I wonder if this is what Vergil Styne meant when he said his brother was “still out there.” I wonder what Dr. Bergstrom would have to say about this? I wonder if he’d have an explanation. Or a cure? Because maybe this feeling is just false hope playing tricks on me. Maybe it’s a manifestation of my “fatherless orphan complex”, let’s call it. Maybe it doesn’t mean anything. Maybe it’s just a means to keep believing that happy endings really do exist. Maybe it’s just all in my head. Or not… ••• Excerpt from my novel, Ever After.

86 87 I’m supposed to be writing every day now. I mean, I should. Because that’s what I am. A writer. I write. And writers do these sorts of things to breathe, to live forever, to make a statement, and so I’ll write. Everyday – I will. I promise. Starting now. And I’ll do this knowing that it’s just for me. It doesn’t have to be too clever for words or even coherent to anyone but myself. But I’ll write. I will. Because that’s what I am. A writer. And this doesn’t have to be phenomenal. No. It just has to be my words, my thoughts, my fingers stroking keys as fastas the rhythms and songs come to me. Itjusthas to be my own to mean something, to be something worth having. To be worthy of calling myself a writer because that’s what I am. That’swhoIam andthat’swhatthesewordsarescreaming between the lines, and if you listen shhhhh, just listen closely enough… you can hear my voice.

You will. I promise…

88 89 He’s so sweet… it hurts. So tart… it burns. And I’m even more satisfied when he leaves the surface of my tongue blue… It becomes this perfect, sugary hue you might expect from cartoon snowflakes and oceans people never drown in… It’s a love I never believed in. Until I tasted it on his lips and nearly choked on it. He opened himself to me – in an explosion of lemon drop kisses that hit like warheads… Touches sweet on my skin like warm molasses… And candy endeavors – that left me breathless. He’s so deep… I could cry. So good… I could die. And I’m even more satisfied when I wake up next to him the morning after. The sunrise is golden caramel glaring through my window like a jealous ex-lover. I recover from the afterglow of mandarin fingers that have caressed my curves and hold tight to the taste in my mouth. I can taste lazy afternoons and picnics in the park… Sour arguments and dreams – that suddenly turn dark… Flavors that envelope the mystery that is us. I taste our entire history all at once, and it leaves me speechless.

90 91 Jace Lannister is not himself. Between the buzz of the office and the migraine piercing his thoughts like a hot needle, he can barely focus on the design proofs cluttering his desk. It’d been another sweat-soaked night, laced with night terrors and memories he wishes he could forget. What’s worse, he awoke face down on his kitchen floor, unsure how he got there. He hasn’t sleepwalked in years, not since he was a child, so his stomach instantly flooded with acid and alarm as he peeled himself off the cold tiles, realizing the old habit had returned. He blames the new medication Dr. Gretchen Kessler pre- scribed; the pale, blue pills that remind him of cotton candy – sugary and sticky – but taste pungent on his tongue like bitter, black licorice. “Let’sseehowyoudoonthis,”shesaid,notbotheringtomake eye contact as she slid the prescription across her desk. She tucked her Revlon-red hair behind an ear and leaned back in her chair afterwards; her face full of exhaustion, as if scribbling her name on the prescription pad locked in her desk had taken her last bit of strength. Jace can’t wait to give her an earful at their next session. Better yet, he’ll threaten to stop coming altogether. One less check to cash will get her attention, he thinks with a scowl smeared across his handsome face. He rubs the scruff on his jaw, sensing he forgot to shave beforerunningout. Despitethis, he’smanaged tomakehimself presentable in tailored gray trousers, a fitted, white polo, and a navy blazer that now hangs on the back of his chair. His skin is sun-kissed bronze with notes of mahogany and nutmeg that consequently casts him as one of two people of color in the 92 entire office. (There were three, but Lana, the thick-boned sister with goddess braids in accounting recently left to start a dessert bar in Portland’s Hawthorne district.) He misses her, but if he’s honest, he mostly misses the pastel, frosted treats she brought on Fridays. Like a hawk with talons at the ready, he’d learned to keep an eye out for Lana’s arrival and intercept her in the hall on her way to the kitchen, well before the art directors struck like cobras, unlatching their jaws and devouring the sugary cakes and fancy confections for themselves. He smooths a hand over his hair, a soft crown of thick curls the color of starless nights; the sides tapered, leading to a brawny neck and square shoulders. His eyes are an unusual, stormy gray people routinely find captivating, like staring into the eye of a tornado ripping down from the sky. Beautiful and frightening. He has his father to thank for this genetic anomaly… among other things. Jace draws a breath and attempts to focus again on the design proofs littering his desk. By day, he’s a senior account executive at Moxy, a fast-rising ad agency in the bowels of downtown Portland. His days are spent juggling a portfolio of sizable marketing accounts, reviewing work from his team of graphic designers and keeping everyone happy in the process; most of all, his clients, who rarely have a clear vision of what they want but always have strong opinions on everything. He hovers over the drafts on his desk… Ads for a new microbrewery being erected in Nob Hill – as if Portland doesn’t have enough places already drowning in overpriced craft beer. He gives the glossy designs a once-over and bites his lower 93 lip. The photosfrom the shootturned outbetterthan expected. The copy is concise and on target, and his graphic designer chose the perfect font to use throughout the design. The proofs are exactly what the client requested at their last meeting. Still, he can’t help but suck in air between his teeth and sigh heavily, knowing… “They’re gonna rip these apart.” He frowns and crosses his arms. For the second time this morning, he reaches into his top deskdrawerforasmallmirror–acompacthispredecessorleft behind among pink Post-It Notes and paperclips. He cracks it open and takes a sharp breath, as his reflection glares back. He peers closer at the shiny surface covered in greasy fingerprints. His eyes roam critically from one feature to another. A small cleft under the bridge of his nose. Small flecks of silver in his eyes. Angular cheekbones under youthful skin. He moves his tight jaw in a circle and squints closer to confirm that the face staring back is his own. There’s a soft knock at his door, and Jace quickly snaps the mirror shut. His assistant, Alex Cruise, pokes his head in. “Morning!” His tone tests the waters to see what kind of mood Jace is in. He holds up a Stumptown Roasters latte, presenting it like a sacrificial offering. In his other hand, he holds a coffee for himself with a tablet tucked in the fold of his arm. “Perfecttiming,”Jacewaveshiminandeyesthesecondcoffee, guessing it’s Alex’s usual. Black, no sugar, with a small splash of half-and-half. 94 “You get a haircut?” Alex tilts his head, giving him an odd look. “No…” Jace stares back, frozen. If anything, he’s slightly overdue for a visit to his barber. What could Alex be picking up on? What does he see? “Oh. You just… Something looks different, that’s all.” Alex shrugs off the feeling and hands Jace the cup warming the pads of his fingers. Jace swallows hard but wills himself to move on. “Thanks for the coffee. Have a seat.” He gives Alex a warm smile. Alex does as he’s told, and a wave of relief crashes and slips from his eyes. Jace’s smile seems to have defused the tension in the air. He isn’t a naturally smiley person – never has been – so it’s something he must constantly work at by practicing in his bathroom mirror, training the muscles in his jaw and the curve ofhislipstotakeonthememorysohemightsmileon-demand ashe’sjustdone. Heenvieshiscoworkers, whohavenotrouble floating around the office like grinning idiots all day. Even if they’re all truly miserable inside, you’d never know it. Meanwhile, Jace struggles to match their level of blinding nirvana. Alex gives a slight smile, but Jace can still see his mind at work, trying to solve what’s different about him. It’s going to eat at him all day. Alex is tall and lanky with skin like fine porcelain. His eyes are a bottomless shade of brown with freckles sprinkled beneath that stretch from one end of his face to the other like an unnamed galaxy, riddled with hidden constellations. His hair is dark, glossy waves of chestnut tresses he’s tamed and combed into a slick pompadour of sorts. He looks part hipster, 95 part professional with chunky, black glasses and skinny slacks. Alex smiles with ease, like the morning person he is, and sits in one of two leather club chairs facing Jace’s desk. Behind Jace is a row of tall windows with an impressive view of the city. The walls of his office are a calm, soft gray, colored with framed art prints and posters from past advertising campaigns. There’s a large dry-erase board full of notes, a mid-century modern sofa where Jace does his best thinking, and a shelving unit filling one wall, full of oddities and knick-knacks he’s collected over time. Framed vintage postcards. An autographed copy of Invisible Life, by E. Lynn Harris. Three old bowling pins he rescued from a past campaign shoot. An old typewriter. A record player. A collection of vinyl that includes a copy of Ella in Berlin: Mack the Knife – which would be the first thing he grabs in case of a fire. A few Christmas cards from clients and some of the staff he’s forgotten to take down. His framed diploma on the wall… The only thing you won’t find is family photos or some hint of his family tree. Of course, there’s good reason for this, but he largely refuses to acknowledge or speak on his dark, troubled roots outside of Dr. Kessler’s office. That’s what he pays her for; to provide a safe space to air these grievances – or at least until he fires her and finds a new therapist. He leans back in his chair and wonders if his best friend, Syd, could refer him to someone. 96 Syd knows everyone. “Want a run-through?” Alex perks his eyebrows, quietly noting the distant look in Jace’s eyes. “Uhm, yes.” Jace blinks and produces a small smile. “What’s on deck today?” Alex scrolls on his tablet. “Edits are back from the Spellman project. Lydia says it’s just a few tweaks.” “Thank God.” Jace sips his coffee and rolls his eyes with pleasure. The only thing that can make this better is a donut from Blue Star. “Staff meeting at ten…” Alex squints into the brightness of the screen. “Then you have that marketer’s lunch at The Kimble and a two o’clock with the Outpost guys.” He means the new microbrewery. Jace glances at the proofs on his desk. “Then, you have the team debrief at three. Also, Fareed Ahmed wants to know if you can do lunch on Monday.” Ugh, Fareed. He’s a sales rep for a new magazine, hounding Jace for weeks about buying ad space. “Let’s file that under no,” Jace smirks. Alex nods and swipes his screen. “There’s a signup sheet for the kickball league going around. Deadline is Monday.” “File that under hell no.” “Weren’t you MVP last year?” “Who told you that?” “Everyone,” he shrugs. “They’re already arguing over which team gets you. You’re not gonna play this year?” “It’s kickball.” Jace shrugs back. “They’ll live. Besides, I already chair all of our community service initiatives, it was myideatostartascholarshipprogram, and I played black Santa at the Christmas party for the kids. I think I’ll sit this one out.” 97 Before Alex can weigh if this is a battle worth fighting, Derby Parker pops her head through the door. “Hey, you!” She beams at Jace, her smile almost blinding. “Lunch today?” “He’s booked,” Alex says, on cue. “Networking thing at The Kimble.” “Well, that sounds painful.” Her smile crumbles as she swipes her blonde bangs from her green eyes. Her crushed sequin sweater gives off flashes of pink and magenta under the florescent light, as if signaling her disappointment. To see Derby, you’d never guess she sits at a desk all day editing copy. She never dresses the part, and today is no different as Jace takes in her glittering pink sweater, daringly short faux leather skirt, and ankle boots. She looks like she was on her way to a cocktail party and got lost. Now, here she is at his door, sober and asking if he’ll accompany her for what would surely be a bland vegan lunch at her favorite food truck down the block. “Trust me,” Jace frowns. “I wouldn’t be going if Foster didn’t mention it in last week’s meeting.” “So, you’ve been volun-told.” “Indeed.” Her shoulders slump like a ragdoll and she throws her head back with a grunt. “Fine. Guess I’ll just eat all by my lonesome today.” Her glossy bubblegum lips pout as she waves, “Bye, boys,” wiggling her nails on her way out. “A few ofthe guys wanted to know ifyou were free for lunch too,” Alex says once she’s gone. His stare lingers at the empty doorway, occupied only by traces of her Chanel perfume. “That was the perfect chance to have lunch with her,” Jace points out. “You should have spoken up, took my place.” 98 He blushes. “Derby’s nice, but…” “Not your type?” He fidgets in his seat. “I think she has a boyfriend.” “She doesn’t,” Jace says. “You should ask her out!” “You’ve obviously never seen me talk to women,” he cringes. “It’s a dumpster fire. I get all tongue-tied and never know what to say.” “Alex Cruise, lady-killer!” Jace muses. “Who knew?” “Right,” he forces a chuckle. “Really, though. Even back in high school, wasn’t great with girls. I had a face full of zits and this clunky metal knee brace – I had a crooked spine,” he explains. “Like Forrest Gump.” He swallows, gauging Jace’s reaction, then continues. “Anyway, all the kids called me tin man because of my brace. Total babe-magnet on the playground.” Yeesh. Jace can only imagine. He watches Alex’s cheeks burn red and says no more. “Anyway, where were we?” Alex rolls his shoulders back and finds his place on the schedule. “Right. Like I was saying, team debrief at three. Then you have a four-thirty with Karen and dinner at OX at seven.” “Dinner?” Alex gives him a pointed look. “With Graham.” Jace plants his face in his hands. “Shit. That’s tonight?” He’s stunned it slipped his mind. Alex has been going on and on about his friend, Graham, for weeks, insisting the two meet for dinner, that they have so much in common and would make a perfect pair… though Jace has to wonder if this is purely a case of Alex matching him with the only other single gay man in Portland he knows. Alex doesn’t strike him as having many 99 gay friends, but he likely touts the one he has as if it might earn him brownie points or affirm he’s secure enough in his sexuality to have a token gay friend. The ladies probably eat it up when Alex mentions his good “bro”, Graham, who’s gay, but that’s not what matters! Love is love, you know? “Graham can’t wait to meet you,” he says, “It’s all he’s been talking about.” “Blind dates never work out,” Jace sighs. “You know this, right?” “He’s a standup guy. Really! You’re gonna love him.” “I just don’t think I’m up for it.” “Please don’t make me cancel,” Alex pleads. “It took me two weeks to get that reservation. Plus, when’s the last time you went on a date?” Jace’s mind flashes to the handsome stranger who buzzed him on an app after 1 a.m. two nights ago, but that doesn’t count as a date. Jace hadn’t been able to sleep and simply couldn’t think of a better way to pass the time. It’d been dangerous to invite a complete stranger over to his loft in the Pearl District that time of night. He’s heard horror stories of men being robbed or worse, so he hid his finer jewelry in the freezer, quite pleased with himself for outthinking any possible robbery scenario; but upon seeing Nick’s smile at the door— Wait… No. It was Neil. Not Nick. Even though he looked more like a Nick, the tall blonde introduced himself as Neil. Yes. Jace is sure of it now. Seeing Neil’s smile at the door (and the bulge in his ripped 100 jeans) put him at ease instantly, and, luckily, the sex had been worth the late-night gamble. Still, it wasn’t a date. There was nothing remotely romantic about it, even when Neil rested his head on Jace’s chest afterward and the two talked about life and the best places to hike in Portland. For a split second, it might have felt intimate at best. Jace can admit he conjured up a fantasy that stretched beyond a one-night-stand with Neil… Dinner dates and the symphony… Lunch at the Saturday Market and a stroll along Waterfront Park and the Willamette River… Perhaps even one day meeting Neil’s parents, who’d welcome him into the family with open arms. The idea of a relationship swirled in his mind, warm and comforting like the embrace of a smooth bourbon coaxing him into a sweet haze. His skin was still glowing from the endorphins coursing through his body after their lovemaking. Actually, no, he wouldn’t call it that. It was much too rough and feverish to be called lovemaking. Neil had pounced on him as soon as the front door closed, and the rest was a primal symphony of grunts, swearing, and skin on skin. Jace was still drunk from the rush and might have dipped a toe in the pond of ambiguity collecting between them to ask if Neil might want to grab dinner sometime – but then his eyes started to fall heavy, and Neil politely saw his way out. Hearingthedoorclose, Jacewassuretheirpathswouldnever cross again. Alex peers at Jace. “You deserve some fun. You’ve been burning both ends of the candle on this Outpost account.” “It’s my most important account.” “Trust me, I get it,” Alex swears. “Nail this campaign and 101 Foster basically has no choice but to promote you to partner. It’s a big deal.” “It’s a huge deal! It’s what I’ve been working toward ever since I signed on.” Jace leans forward in his chair and his brows draw tight. “You have no idea what I’ve been through just to make it this far. No one handed me anything, Alex. I got through high school on my own, worked three jobs to put myself through college, and I’ve had to work twice as hard to get where I am. Getting this promotion makes all the late nights and hoops I’ve had to jump through worth it. It’ll prove wrong everyone who said I’d never be anything.” “Everyone on staff’s rooting for you!” Alex assures him. “Everyone sees how hard you work, and Foster loves you.” Jace feels a hint of a smile on his lips but quickly snuffs it out. “I need to focus on my work. No distractions.” “But a break could be just what you need!” Alex says. “Re- search shows that ‘strategic renewal’ – like daytime workouts, short afternoon naps, longer sleep hours, and more time away from the office boosts productivity, job performance, and your health. What better break than dinner with a solid guy? Plus, I told Graham he’s paying tonight,” he throws in. “I don’t know how that usually works. You know, like, who pays when there’s two guys, but worst come to worst, it’s a free meal.” Jace frowns, realizing he won’t win this argument. Just get it over with, he thinks. Then, he won’t have to keep hearingabouthow greatthisGraham guy isand Alexcan focus on his work instead of playing Cupid. Maybe it won’t be so bad. Besides, a free meal is a free meal, and OX’s Argentine- inspired menu and James Beard Award-winning staff sound like excellent company. 102 “Fine, but don’t get your hopes up,” Jace says. “I don’t have much luck at dating.” The word cursed comes to mind. “Just be yourself. But if he asks about what you do, don’t dwell on work and unload on him. Just talk about whatever guys talk about on dates,” he shrugs. This is his best advice. Jace inwardly rolls his eyes. It’s lucky for Alex he doesn’t know any desperately single women; otherwise, he’d surely arrange a blind date for his meddling assistant with the worst of the worst. Of course, there’s Derby… but that’s too on-the-nose. Derby’s a bit eccentric, but overall, she’s a sweetheart. It’s too safe of a gamble. If Jace is going to set Alex up, it has to be with a real wild card. Is she a keeper? Or will she spin into a jealous rage and key Alex’s car the first time he doesn’t text back? Why Alex is so keen on playing matchmaker is beyond him, but at least it’s served as a bonding mechanism of sorts. Alex was a bit cold and aloof during his first few weeks on the job, only thawing upon overhearing Jace mention details of his life outside the office. His volunteer work. His love of all things jazz. His constant search for new art for his loft. Only then did he seem eager to befriend Jace in some small way. “Don’t overthink it,” Alex says after a gulp of his coffee. “Everything will be fine. At lunch, I’ll grab your dry cleaning – maybe wear the new burgundy blazer tonight? Then I’ll swing by the pharmacy for your prescription.” “Can you bring back some food? I probably won’t eat at this thing at The Kimble.” Jace always picks over his plate at lunch meetings. “Okay – but nothing too heavy, so you’ll have an appetite 103 tonight. How about a salad? Or a quinoa bowl from that new food truck? I hear it’s good.” “I’ll eat whatever you bring back.” Jace surrenders with a shrug. “While you’re out though, can you get the car washed? Just drive it through a car wash somewhere, doesn’t need to be detailed.” Washing Jace’s Beemer isn’t official agency business, nor is picking up his dry cleaning and prescriptions, but it’s also not outside the norm for assistants to run these types of errands. Senior account executives keep long office hours, so this type of outside work doesn’t go unnoticed come bonus time, as Alex quickly caught on. He gives a firm nod. “You got it, boss.” “Here’s some cash.” Jace opens his wallet and his face instantly goes dark. “What’s wrong?” Jace scowls, staring into the black, empty abyss of his faux leather wallet. “I could’ve sworn I had cash… I should have a fifty in here,” he frowns. “I was gonna give that to you for the car.” “I’ll just put it on your card.” Jace can’t tear his stare from his empty wallet. He can’t shake the feeling thathiseyesare playing trickson him. “Thisdoesn’t make any sense…” “Are you sure you had cash?” “What do you mean, ‘Am I sure?’” Jace cuts his eyes, “What are you saying?” “Nothing!” Alex stammers. “It’s just that—” “It’s just that what?” “It’s just… You’ve been a little forgetful lately. You haven’t really been yourself – which is understandable!” He nods 104 adamantly. “You’ve got a lot on your plate.” There’s a chime from Jace’s computer, and he grimaces as an email from Ann in the production department comes through. She’s amazing at creating more work for everyone. It’s sort of her thing, like a villainess superpower that throws wrenches in everyone’s schedule. He can’t bring himself to open the email. It’s too early for her bullshit, he decides. Alex, grateful for the distraction, aims to make his escape. “Anything else before I go, boss?” The anxious look on Alex’s face is sobering. Jace hadn’t meant to snap at him. Alex does so much to keep him on track, and he shouldn’t be mad at him for telling the truth. He hasn’t been himself lately. Sleepwalking and forgetting about the only date (albeit a blind one) he’s had in six months isn’t like him at all. Plus, there’s that trouble with the mirror lately… Jace draws a breath as Dr. Kessler’s voice plays in his head, telling him to count backwards from ten. “That’ll be all,” Jace says. “Thanks for getting me up to speed.” His words are sincere, even if the smile on his face doesn’t match. Alex nods and turns, bumping right into Dominick Wissel on his way out. There’s a pause as they both register the coffee stain bloom- ing on Dominick’s shirt like a gunshot wound. It saturates the crisp white button-down in helpless slow motion. “Dominick!” Alex winces at Dominick’s intense, blue gaze. “Oh my God… I’m so sorry! I didn’t see you there.” Dominick grits his teeth at the burn soaking through the fabric and gives a grand shrug of his shoulders. “Guess you’ll just have to run out and buy me a new shirt now, won’t you?”

105 There’s something sharp just below the surface of Dominick’s smile as he pats Alex hard on the shoulder. His hand lingers as if fighting the urge to squeeze; fighting the urge to grab Alex by his throat. “Of course!” Alex mentally adds buying Dominick a new shirt to his list. He could do it before getting the car washed. What size is Dominick anyway? He quickly scans the bulky figure before him and guesses he’s a large, but he’ll be sure to confirm with Dominick’s assistant, Shelby. “New shirt. I’m right on top of that!” “I need it before lunch.” Dominick’s smile vanishes as he gestures toward the stain. “I can’t walk around like this all fuckin’ day.” “Right. Before lunch! Promise.” Alex frowns for the first time this morning. His chest swells with a sigh he manages to contain. “Again, so sorry, Dominick. Totally my fault.” “Stop apologizing,” Jace crosses his arms. “From where I’m sitting, looks like he bumped into you.” Dominick turns his gaze. His mouth twists into a distorted funhouse smile. “From where I’m standing, I could have third- degree burns!” “This isn’t ‘Days of Our Lives’. He apologized. Now stop crying and let him go buy you a new shirt. Jesus. Put it on my card, Alex.” Alex shoots Jace a grateful half-smile and slinks past Do- minick. “You should learn to control your help,” Dominick says in an insolent tone, loud enough for Alex to hear. “And you should learn to stop sleeping with yours,” Jace fires back. “You two aren’t fooling anyone, by the way.” He rolls his eyes, thinking back to the office Christmas party and 106 how the two had skirted around each other all night, barely speaking. He doesn’t blame Shelby though. She’s far younger than Dominick, and he can see how she’d be taken by him. Dominick’s a special kind of asshole, but he’s devastatingly handsome. If the devil could take human form, he might look like Dominick Wissel. It kills Jace to admit it, but he’s always been a sucker for redheads. Add in Dominick’s crystal-blue eyes and beefy physique, and it’s pure torture to look at him for long. How can anything so beautiful be so vile? Every time Dominick passes his office, Jace scowls… then checks out his ass. Jace hates himself every time, but he can’t help it. He’s even fantasized about the sex; sure to be a potent mixture of hate and passion. He imagines Dominick storming into his office, slamming him against the wall as their limbs and tongues entwine. Jace would tug and wrap Dominick’s tie around his knuckles, half playfully, half wanting to truly strangle the life from him. They’d fight for dominance over the other, wrestling out of their suits, on the verge of ripping each other apart. It sounds like a bad porno brought to life but, for Jace, the attraction makes their working relationship all the more complicated. Dominick’s more than your typical case of office eye candy, innocuous and without consequence. Jace might sneak glances and fantasize, but he knows it’s useless. Desiring Dominick is like salivating over a decadent dessert, sprinkled with arsenic. No good can come of it. If Shelby can stomach Dominick’s behavior, then good for her, he thinks.

107 “Shelby?” Dominick laughs. “That’s just a rumor.” “Is it though?” “The chick’s like half my age!” “You’re not helping your case,” Jace smirks. He’s been counting the days until HR addresses it and assigns Dominick a new assistant – although he’d hate for them to switch Shelby for Alex. Losing Alex would be a blow, and Dominick doesn’t deserve someone as good and talented as Alex. “Speaking of rumors,” Dominick smiles sharply and crosses his arms, arms like forged steel. “I hear you have a hot date at OX tonight.” Jace is careful not to react, even as his mind races to solve how Dominick knows this. How long was he standing outside his door? “Guess you can say that…” “Good for you!” Dominick’s eyes twinkle as he lingers in the doorway. “Who’s the unlucky guy?” “It’s a blind date, so I guess we’ll see who gets the short end of the stick,” Jace muses. “But I suppose you didn’t stop by to discuss my love life. Please tell me that’s not why you’re here.” “Promise it’s not.” Dominick smiles with the charm of a snake oil salesman and leans against the doorframe. Much like how you’d handle a blood-sucking vampire, Jace is mindful not to invite him in. Keeping your enemies at work close is one thing, but Dominick can be unpredictable. Plus, once inside, Jace may never get him to leave, and he still has a ton of shit to do before the 10 a.m. staff meeting. Jace stares at Dominick, his face blank like a catalog model. “Are you gonna make me guess why you’re here?” “Oh, you’ll never guess.” Dominick’s smile spreads wider. There’s something about Dominick’s smile that has always 108 gotten under Jace’s skin. Aside from lacking sincerity, it somehow always seems to stretch a little too wide for his face, dancing on the line of grotesque. It looks almost digitally augmented; a smile fitting of a horror movie monster. There’s nothing there but teeth, special effects, and darkness. Jace’s monitor chimes and another email from Ann pops up. “This is the part when you get to the point, Dominick. I have work to do.” “Oh, your big Outpost account, right?” He cranes his neck to peek at the proofs on Jace’s desk. Take a good look, Jace thinks. Even if the client has edits (which they will), he knows the design and creative direction are solid; more solid than anything Dominick’s produced at this point. “It’s going amazing, by the way. Clients couldn’t be happier,” he adds for good measure. “That’s great!” Dominick’s smile thinly veils his agitation. “Pull this off and you’ve got the partner position all buttoned up, huh?” “Yes, but don’t worry!” Jace plays along. “Once I’m partner, I’ll bequeath you my old office.” He matches Dominick’s patronizing smile. “See? All this will be yours one day!” He laughs from his distance, annoyance flashing behind his eyes. “So, you came to size up the competition?” Jace asks. “Is that what this is?” Dominick uncrosses his arms and blows out a frustrated breath. “Like I said, looks like you’ve got the partner position in the bag.” “I’m glad we agree.” Jace turns his attention back to his work. “Foster’s always liked you. Everyone likes you, that’s no secret. 109 And you’ve always done great work here – hell, even I’m a fan of your work, if I’m honest.” He runs a hand over the back of his neck and shrugs. “Why wouldn’t Foster pick you for the promotion…” Jace looks up from his side of the desk. “I suppose I might be the frontrunner,” he admits, not without caution. “There’s just one thing though…” Dominick points a finger. “See, I may not be Foster’s favorite or anyone’s favorite,” he shrugs. “I know most people here don’t take me seriously or think I’ll make the cut…” Jace answers Dominick’s pause with wide eyes. “Was that… rhetorical?” “Make jokes all you want. See, I may not have your track record or the biggest accounts, but there’s one advantage I have that you don’t.” This oughta be good, Jace thinks. Dominick’s handsome face twists into another gruesome smile as he announces, “I’m good at poker.” Jace bends his lips to one side. “What does poker have to do with anything?” His expression sours. “My father was Wayne Wissel. The Wayne Wissel.” He waits for Jace to react. Jace shrugs from his desk. “You’re kidding. Wayne ‘The Flame’ Wissel,” he waves a hand as if to jog Jace’s memory, as if this is common knowledge. “Championship poker player during the ‘90s…?” “Do I look like I follow championship poker?” He huffs. “Valid. Fine, whatever. My point is this… my old man was a legend in the poker world. The best! He toured everywhere – undefeated! As a kid, he was into magic. He wanted to be a magician when he grew up, so he always had a 110 deck of cards on him…” Jace deflates in his chair, realizing he’s in for a long story. “He could make cards disappear, reappear. He could guess what card you were thinking of; he could do anything, all at the age of seven. He was like a child prodigy.” Cheap card tricks don’t make you a child prodigy, but Jace resists the urge to point this out. “He slept with those cards, never left the house without ‘em. They were his best friends.” The universe seems hell-bent on testing Jace’s patience this morning, but he sits quietly, counting back from ten. “By the time he got to high school, he was into online poker, then he got into the underground shit. He was makin’ so much moneyheboughtmy grandparentsanew houseand convinced them to let him off the hook about college or enlisting. He was practically a millionaire at seventeen.” Jace gives a slight nod from his chair. He has to admit, that’s impressive. “He played for years, non-stop, night and day, almost never sleeping. He was on a roll! Then he moved to Vegas, where he met my mother.” Jace guesses she was a waitress in a casino. “She was a waitress in a casino.” Jace frowns at the cliché, barely suppressing an eye roll. “Outside of winning, he hated Vegas, but he always said she was his good luck charm. She’s what convinced him to stay for as long as he did.” Jace can’t imagine living in Las Vegas – a neon desert where the dry heat alone makes you want to shoot yourself in the face. “They got married by an Elvis impersonator after my mother 111 told him she was pregnant, with me.” So much for good luck, Jace thinks. “He went on playing competitively, got wrapped up in some casino lawsuit. Something about countin’ cards… ended up drinkin’ himself to death.” Dominick quickly tiptoes through this part. “Long story short…” Thank God, Jace thinks. The air in the room turns thick as Dominick levels his eyes at Jace. There’s something dark and insinuating swimming under the blue current. “My old man could read cards like he could read people. He could see right through them – and before he died, he taught me how to do the same.” “I don’t follow,” Jace says, ignoring the spike in his pulse. With a flourish of his wrist, Dominick magically plucks a deck of playing cards from thin air. The edges of the box are worn and weathered, barely holding its contents – cards full of history and pain; full of casino smoke, memories, and stories of love at first sight over a tray of watered-down rum and cokes. Full of sticky, marked cards and tales from Dominick’s childhood. Dominick steps forward into Jace’s office, breaking the invisible barrier that’s kept him at bay. Jace leans back in his chair, startled and vulnerable to whatever evil power Dominick might reveal next. He’s always kept Dominick at a careful distance, but now there stands little between them. “Just like this deck of cards, I can see right through you, man. You might have everyone else fooled, but you don’t fool me.” “Dominick…” Jace forces himself to laugh. He tries to calm the thunder filling in his belly. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” 112 “A good poker player recognizes a good poker face,” Do- minick insists. “And yours?” He smirks with a nod of wry appreciation. “Yours is almost as good as his was. That’s why you remind me of him.” Jace falls silent. His gaze skirts to his top desk drawer containing the mirror. “Everyone thinks you’re this saint and that you’re hot shit, but I know you’re hiding something. I know you’re hiding something behind that fake smile of yours, and I’m gonna prove it!” Before Jace can craft a droll reply or regain his bearings, Dominick turns on his heel and leaves. Poof. Gone. Jace sits in silence, the air knocked out of him. To anyone walking by, it might have all sounded like office jealousy and the covetous rantings of his competition. Every- one knows Dominick has his heart set on the promotion to partner despite his less than stellar body of work. Anyone would dismiss this private deriding as sour grapes. But Jace can’t dismiss it. It’s not that simple. Dominick’s words linger like smoke from a flame, blown out. I know you’re hiding something. Jace’s heart flies into a panic, fluttering about his ribcage like an injured bird. The color drains from his face as the words sink in… I know you’re hiding something. There’s only one thing that can destroy the life Jace has worked so hard to create. There’s only one secret that can ruin his career and any 113 semblance of a normal life – something he’s fought hard to mold from the ashes of his dark past. There’s only one secret worth hiding that could change everything if revealed… but Dominick Wissel, of all people, couldn’t possibly know. Could he?

••• I hope you enjoyed this excerpt from my novel, The Other Side of the Mirror, available on Barnes & Noble and Amazon. Visit christophermurphybooks.com for more information.

114 115 If ever you’re roaming alone in this world, without a hand to hold.

If ever you’re lost and can’t find your way, left bitter in the cold.

If ever there are no words to say, your mouth, dry as sand.

If ever your eyes are too blinded by tears, to convey your heart’s demand.

If ever you’re drowning in the rain, and the sun has turned its back.

If ever you find yourself on your knees, praying for all that you lack.

If ever you’re love-starved and aching inside, when your pillow just won’t do.

If ever you lose yourself in the lies, searching for something true.

If ever you manage to force a smile, somehow, despite the sorrow.

If ever there was a time to fall in love… Then let it be tomorrow.

116 117 I’ve seen the rise and demise of the blind leading the blind, I’ve watched them break and fall, right before my very eyes… I’ve seen planes crashing and trains colliding – pain and deaths multiplying, around the clock on TV screens screaming non- stop. The media bleeding its heart out… I should be listening… But I’m not. I’ve seen victims conditioned by politicians, screwed by the system… Mis-educated by the law that promises to protect them… I’ve seen people overdose on spoonfuls of reality, and brothers killed in the streets by police brutality. I’ve seen mothers mute their children for a man they hardly know. And seen incest and the guilty confess on the Jerry Springer Show. I’ve seen violence and sex sell for the sake of TV ratings. I’ve seen rallies and activists protest political demonstrating. I’ve seen a million men march, and ignorance rain on gay parades. I’ve seen neighborhoods infested by crime throughout decades. I’ve seen our youth die too early and the old live in denial… Seen the accountable slapped on the wrist while the innocent burn at trial. I’ve heard lies echoed from the lips of our own president, and witnessed the descent of our faith in the government. But it’s all irrelevant… when you’re too busy searching for weapons of mass destruction… Then the press spins the truth… Pours out watered down lies in mass production, without proof… 118 I’ve seen lies spit in our faces in headlines, breaking news and exclusive interviews… while I stand on the sidelines, feeling jaded and aloof. I’ve seen leaders ripped to shreds by radio hosts, issues made into jokes and then remixed until the words… suddenly… become… true. I’ve seen televangelists scream and wail about salvation until their faces were blue. I’ve even seen Technicolor wars and riches evolve from rags, Then seen hopes and dreams carried out in body bags… I’ve seen people discriminated and even die for their beliefs, I’ve seen race riots and earthquakes that rumble in the streets. I’ve seen twenty-five New Years Eves with Dick Clark on TV, mourned the deaths of music legends and rejoiced in their legacy. I’ve seen mighty towers crumble and tsunamis sweep the earth, I’ve seen floods overtake cities and then glowed in their rebirth. I’ve seen civil rights denied and national security compro- mised… I’ve watched the state of brotherhood being slowly circum- cised… I’ve seen women degraded, reduced to “bitches” and “ho’s”, as they shake their humps and curves in music videos. I’ve seen the homeless beg in the cold, hold their cardboard signs and shiver. I’ve watched the poor remain poor… while the rich only get richer. I’ve seen countries divided and pop culture define: Our beliefs, Our values and shape our minds. 119 I’ve seen this world stop spinning through these eyes… through satellites and copyrights, red tape and blurred lines… Through anarchy and revolutions that will not be televised… But I’ve taken my mind to a new state of elevation, So don’t look for me after this commercial break…

Because I’ve already changed the station.

120 121 Jaded curves and sunlit flares embody the way that he looks at me. Like blinds drawn tight and twisted glares, spun and overdone. Losing gravity. Pinwheels and empty bottles, wide-eyed kisses… Boys adored… with the courage to be. As angels watch me fall from grace.

Cutting my strings. Abandoning me.

Overhead crushes, projected in laughter, that shatters win- dows. Sucking and cutting my lips.

High and bloodshot from sipping the sky. Trips into aeons, embracing my eclipse.

He winks and then dips into a rippling cry. Damned and undaunted.

Until it dies.

122 123 “I won’t be mad if you don’t write.” We were sitting on his roof, drinking Coronas. Like Gar- goyles, inconspicuously watching the night pass us by. Stars littered the sky like glitter, and it occurred to me that I’d never seen so many at one time in one place… If I’d made any mention of it, he would have explained that they’re always there – the stars, I mean – and that the lights from the city usually just drown them out… Just this long and gratuitous explanation I didn’t need, really. He’s always pointing out how smart he is. So I didn’t say anything about stars or how beautiful but lonely they looked out there in space. I just breathed in the night and let my shoulders sink, stretch back like chiseled wings on my back. I recall a strange electricity in the air that night, as though it might have rained at any moment. Yet, I doubt either of us would have moved an inch. Not until this was handled. Not until we’d done what we came to do. The frown on my face weighed me down like concrete as he seemed determined to make this a long goodbye. I took a long, desperate sip of my beer and secretly prayed it’d be over soon. I’d be in Paris for the next two months on assignment for Newsweek, covering the DuVeou Trial. After being held for five months and sentenced to death in a Texas penitentiary, Franz DuVeou, a native Parisian, was having his case heard in his birthplace after a ground-breaking Supreme Court ruling that overturned his death sentence. It was a gig I couldn’t pass up. After two years of freelancing, this story was my ticket to landing a staff position. Combing through the city between interviews and press conferences would devour my time, and sleep would likely become a distant memory as I’d be up until 124 God only knows when reviewing case studies and preparing for court the next day. I’d have absolutely no time for myself. Of course I’d write him.

“Why do you have to be so theatrical?” “I’m only saying.” He shrugged and did that thing he does with his hands. It’s like he’s waving off the idea as if it has dragonfly wings and won’t stop buzzing around his head. “I know you’ll be busy and all…” “I’ll write.” He nodded, satisfied for the moment with my promise. I wondered if he’d miss me then. I mean, really miss me… I probably wouldn’t miss me. Icanbesuchanabsolutedicksometimesitmakesmewonder what he ever saw in me. After all, guys like him don’t go for guys like me. Not usually. He’s like a wet dream come true. Every inch of his body seems sculpted, precisely chiseled to command my attention – and his eyes are like rain on a sunny day. Warm and unexpectedly beautiful… He’s like the high school jock you’re doomed to fall in love with but could never approach in fear of getting the shit beat out of you. You know what I mean? But the two of us made entirely no sense anyway. That’s what I tell myself now.

“When you get back, we should go on vacation somewhere.” He suddenly perked up. “Together, I mean.” “Right.” I smiled. “Together.” He made a face and pulled me into his arms. “Don’t mock me.” I laughed, held captive in his embrace and the smell of his 125 cologne, stifled by the day’s events. He smelled sweaty and sweet at the same time - like one of those Cinnabons you get at the mall with the icing that just melts and gets everywhere. “Don’t forget to bring me back a souvenir. I want the most gaudy, touristy thing you can find on a keychain.” I laughed. “How about one of those hats shaped like the Eiffel Tower?” “Nah.” “No?” “No. Just bring yourself back.” He held me as if I might fly away. “It’s just two months.” I shrugged. “I’ll be back before you know it.” “Why do you have to be so nonchalant about everything?” “I’m just saying.” I wrestled out of his arms and walked toward the ledge. “Besides, this isn’t really… goodbye.” That was a lie. I think he knew it too. Or at least that’s what I hope, you know? That he was being courageous and just putting on a happy face… A handsome, brave, mask of stone. I felt him walk up behind me, wrap me in his arms, and pull me from the ledge. He buried his face in my neck and branded warm kisses into my skin. “I love you so much.” I heard him sigh. I smiled bitterly at the city lights as they blurred before my eyes. It was then that I knew exactly what would happen, once I left. A month later, I’d call him from my hotel room whispering white lies and watered-down versions of the truth into the receiver while some handsome stranger’s arm dangled off the edge of my bed. We’d dance around the inevitable, and I’d 126 write – I would. I’d send postcards and letters almost every day at first, filled with every detail of my day and touristy facts I’m sure he could care less about. I’d wonder if he was missing me, and the postcard and letters would become fewer and fewer. He’d ask about my article, and I’d say it’s going great. Franz DuVeou would live to receive a ten-year sentence for voluntary manslaughter – and I’d oddly call it a victory. I’d never again see so many stars in one sky as I did that night, and I’d always be fighting to remember them and how it felt to have him holding me there… On his roof… As I quietly said goodbye.

127 128 Same story. Love-sick hours ticking away on his night stand, like fuzzy Christmas lights when he’s not wearing his glasses, and he wonders if I wear boxers or briefs. And he feels guilty when she’s clinging to his arm. Adoring him like no one before, and he’s asking if I want to sleep over.

Same story. Magazines under the dirty mattress that mommy can’t know about. While he sleeps like an angel, and tomorrow’s another big day. Like football jerseys and Gatorade while he slaps Robby’s ass after a touchdown, and the crowd is going wild.

Same story. Late-night tears that no one hears on the bathroom floor. Knees on cold linoleum. Like green and white pills in the medicine cabinet and an unhappy ending that they never saw coming.

129 130 Seems like every time these blue-black blues get thrown in the light, I go blind. Seems like every time I think I’ve made progress in leaps and bounds, I find myself further behind. Seems like you and I, ought to find a better way to coexist. Your merry-go-round ways leave me dazed and restless. Jaded and feeling useless to the rest of the world. I can’t go on like this… And you tell me to suck it up, brush my shoulder off, and know that this is life. Know that this is how it is, you say with sharp, jagged laughter. I rub red muscles, heat, and sweat that collects at my core. I go on without a word because this is the way that it’s always been before. For my people… For my kind… For anyone before that’s ever lived this life. I’m silent, but I know that time brings new tides. Time brings new light. I’m talkin’ about revolutions and movements across the skyline… Time brings unity, fireworks, and dynamite in a blast of diversity – despite this adversity that’s staring me in the face like a mad dog… I keep moving along. My children will grow up strong – and won’t have to fight as hard for what is rightfully theirs. 131 One day…

You’ll see.

132 133 His eyes hold mysteries that leave them spellbound. His gravity leaves them breathless, as they float off the ground. His love is a song, with lyrics that haunt their sleep. His kiss is their rescue, when they’ve fallen in… too deep. His voice is like jazz. Hot brass and golden tones. His touch is like lightning… that burns down to their bones. His presence is electric. Like static in the air. And it’s dangerously easy to get lost in his stare. He’s all of these things and yet nothing you’ve ever seen. Because a love like this… is few and far between.

134 135 Simon closes his eyes, blue and swollen from the intensity of the day’s events. The fluorescent glow of the subway lights, humming gently – as if some bittersweet lullaby he has heard one too many times. He swallows the last of his wine, lays flat on his back, and slowly exhales a cloud of dandelions… Drifting aimlessly above his head. He sees his outstretched arm across the vacant pillow next to him. Jelly bracelets and red knuckles. “What’s wrong with me?” He thinks, wetting his lips and suddenly feeling a rush of heat across his chest. He fills his mornings with lattés at Cafeine’s and chats with Mel, listening to her stories for the third or fifth time. His days are a routine. Ten to five at St. Tropez, the gaudy little boutique on Floyd owned by Ms. Wong who insists on calling him Mary. She says that when she dies she’s going to leave him the shop in her will because she has disowned her daughters for marrying white bastards and can’t stand the thought of the shop closing. Simon smiles whenever she tells him this in her thick Korean accent and thinks to himself that she’ll never die. He eats wonton soup and shrimp-fried rice religiously for dinner on a scheduled delivery by Panda Garden, where they know him by name. It’s sad. A large sum of his money goes toward supporting his habits and riding the subway; feeling the tracks beneath his feet as he sits with the lights flickering at every move of the train. He sits in the same seat he met Terry, the boy that tasted as sweet as nicotine. A month-long romance that has slowly grown stale in the back of his throat – tightening whenever 136 he dreams Terry’s smile. And he marvels that the same seat, his seat, is always empty as he enters the train to go home at night… Growing uneasy, Simon rubs at his eyes and turns off the lamp on his nightstand. All that remains is an amber glowing in the dark as Simon thinks of Mel, the one person who had been there to listen and help him through Terry’s death. The one person he feels always gives him more sugar in his coffee than he deserves.

And he thinks although Mel may not have many stories to tell… every time he hears them … it’s like hearing them again for the first time. Simon lets out a content sigh and puts out his cigarette.

137 138 12 and still in love with sulking wineglasses made dull by her touch. It never fucking amazes me to see him come running. And it might just melt if he opened his eyes, intense and half closed Aching and remorseful. But never considerate enough to listen to the sirens beneath the streetlights below. As though he can read my thoughts like so many unopened books and screaming poetry that he cannot bring himself to acknowledge. But I love him anyway Love him like myself a year ago, With frustrations too vexatious and alive to be burnt out. Kept behind closed doors where he touches himself with sticky fingers and where love doesn’t love back. Where I sing my songs in hopes that the music will repress my notes. Strained and cracking, like c in conceited whispers, collecting in the back of my closet. Where I listen to acid jazz lying flat on my stomach. While she plays with my hair and it’s getting dark outside. Purple and yawning from the bus ride home. 12 and still in love with sulking wineglasses made dull by her touch.

139 140 If I could tear apart these chains that drag at my feet, I would still be far from free. If I ripped them apart and melted them down, I still couldn’t truly be me.

If I burnt down my closet to a pile of ashes, I would still be locked inside. If I kicked down the door and stepped out into the world, there would be no place to hide.

If I conformed to the mold and put on a happy face, there would only be tears underneath. If I said all the things that you wrote in my script, it would just be a kick in the teeth.

And if I suddenly became… all of the things that you hoped and wanted me to be… I’d be safe in your hands and so close to your love, but I would forever be far from free.

141 142 I thought about you today. When my anger threatened to boil over, as the news bled Technicolor headlines and tears of injustice… I thought about you today. When the sun hit my eyes on my busy drive to work, and a school bus passed me, full of children that don’t see color. I thought about you today. When someone asked what’s happened to all of our great leaders - and why I think racism is still alive in 2008. I thought about you today. When I smiled and said hi to people who probably hate me. The same people who call themselves Christians… I thought about you today. When the Jena 6 came to mind… and wondered what pearls of wisdom you’d give a sea of angry picket signs, if you were still with us. I thought about you today. When my little brother called me, just to say, “What’s up?” And I told him it was a good day. I thought about you today. When I looked in the mirror And asked myself what I plan to do… to finally overcome.

143 144 Adam can't focus. He’s sitting in the front row of The Chandler’s main ballroom among investors, press, and VIPs, half-watching Levi give a presentation on… something. It’s unclear what exactly, but there are charts on the screen behind Levi and lots of talk about equity and stock. The ceiling drips with chandeliers that have been dimmed for the occasion and Levi is center stage in a handsome navy suit and black tie, pointing excitedly at the screen behind him. Adam’s mind is back at The St. Langham. He replays the scene over and over, wishing now that he hadn’t fled in such a hurry. He’d been hasty. If someone did break into his room, he should have taken more time to discern what they might have been looking for. Perhaps he should have even reported it. But there’s also a nagging thought – a conceivable explanation that shadows his reasoning and it is just as troubling. What if his mind is playing tricks on him? He’dbeeninsuchahurrytobeontimeforhisinterviewwith Levi that it’s possible he left the mess himself. He’d misplaced the prop glasses he bought and had searched frantically for them before leaving the room that morning. It’s possible he only has himself and paranoia to blame. He’s been on edge and ever since arriving in London he’s felt the sensation of being watched. Then again, ever since leaving Sweet Ridge he’s felt the itch to look over his shoulder… Levi catches Adam’s gaze, and his face immediately softens. Adam hopes it looks like he’s paying attention, and Levi won’t quiz him later. He’s supposed to be the reporter after all. If anything, he should have follow-up questions in mind, but he doesn’t. The lights soon return to their full glow, and the crowd applauds as if Levi has just announced they’ve all won cars. 145 Adam’stemptedtocheckunderhisseatforaprizeofsomesort, when a familiar face struts onstage. Adam instantly recognizes her as the red-lipped blonde from the lobby who ushered him to the rooftop elevator. She whispers something into Levi’s ear, and Adam can only hope it doesn’t pertain to himself. There’s something about her that makes him uneasy. What if she’s checked his credentials and discovered he’s not with the London Herald? He doesn’t have a plan for this, which was sloppy. Normally he’d have a plan B, but he’s been laxer this time. This is his last big contract. His final job. “You alright?” It’s Levi. He breathes relief and smiles at Adam. “Bloody glad that’s over with. What’d you think?” Adam stands and shakes Levi’s hand, which feels like it’s mostly a show for the people lingering, somehow. “It was interesting.” He plays it safe but has a feeling Levi’s caught him drifting off. Luckily, Levi doesn’t challenge his reply. “I know it’s a lot to take in,” he says under his breath. His eyes gloss over Adam with a faint smile. Adam’s instantly glad he’s worn his tightest trousers, how- ever uncomfortable they may be. He’s channeling a sexy version of Clark Kent in his newsroom attire and glasses. He’s even wearing a blue tie since Lauren confided that blue is Levi’s favorite color. He might have guessed this on his own, but regardless, he’s content to see Levi take notice. “Today will be good for the article,” Adam reassures him. “About that,” Levi says, making a labored face. “We should talk.” Adam’s breath catches in his throat. “Weshouldtalkprivately, Imean.” Levileansin, givingAdam a trace of his cologne. The warm notes of citrus and spice are 146 inebriating. There’s a line of people waiting to speak to Levi now. “Perhaps you’ll join me for dinner this evening?” “Oh…” Adam teeters between relief and flattery. An obvious response might be to ask if Mrs. Chandler would be joining them, but he knows Lauren has told Levi she’s flying to one of their hotels in Berlin for the weekend. It will be just the two of them. Alone. At dinner. “Sounds good.” Adam does his best to downplay his excite- ment, but a smile slips past. Levi gives a boyish grin and nods. “Right. Well good. I’ll arrange transportation and will send for you, say, quarter to seven?” Adam’s never been sent for. Should he expect a horse-drawn carriage or a royal escort? He nonetheless agrees and prepares to excuse himself as the line behind them grows. “I look forward to it, Levi,” he says, noting how intimate Levi’s name feelsonhistonguenow. There’ssomethingamongthesyllables and consonants that wasn’t there before. A secret, woven into the language they now share.

______

There’s a knock on Adam’s door just after six thirty. He’s kicking himself for forgetting to record his interaction with Levi earlier. Normally he documents all conversations and interactions with a target as evidence. He keeps a journal of events. He has the tools to wiretap phones and plant tracking devices. He’sevenbuggedhisownroomwithmicsstrategically 147 placed around the suite, behind paintings and the headboard. He’susuallythorough,butsomehowthesimpletaskofpressing record on the tape recorder in his blazer eluded his memory at Levi’s presentation. Between that and the knot of paranoia in his stomach, he feels like he’s unraveling. Adam opens the door to find Wade in uniform, forcing a smile. “Good evening, Mr. Morgan. I’ve been asked to escort you to dinner.” “Right.” Adam does his best to hide his surprise, but it’s useless. Levi’s clearly making a statement by bringing Wade into this. Adam wants so badly to ask who’s manning the elevator but doesn’t. Wade looks like he’s in no mood for sarcasm, so Adam complies and follows Wade down the hall. The silence in the elevator is deafening as they ascend. Wade looks like a watered-down version of the bright-eyed elevator attendant Adam first met. There’s a hint of scornful defeat in his gaze as he stares silently ahead. It’s clear that the pleasantries are over. The doors chime open, and he shoots Adam a rehearsed smile. “Have a pleasant evening, sir.” His words are frostbitten. Adam starts to ask if he’s done something to offend Wade but settles on a polite nod as he exits the elevator. He shrugs off the encounter as sunlight warms his face, realizing he’s been brought to the roof level. Levi is at the far end of the rooftop terrace with his hands folded behind his back. He’s changed into a pair of toffee- colored trousers and a white, tight-fit polo that looks stunning against the hues of gold in his skin. He’s clean-shaven and his dark wavy hair looks as if he’s had a trim since his presentation earlier. 148 Behind Levi sits a jet-black helicopter with the gold Chandler logo branded near the tail boom. For a moment Adam thinks he’s hallucinating, but Levi’s game-show-host smile confirms it. “Ready for liftoff?” Adam nearly doubles over. Before leaving Sweet Ridge he’d never been on an airplane, and it had taken months to overcome his fear of flying. Still, he’s never been inside a helicopter, and there’s not a pilot in sight which can only mean… “You’re flying?!” “Of course.” Levi grins with a shrug as sunlight catches his aviators. Adam ensured Levi was vetted. He’d done weeks of research into Levi and his company before accepting the contract, but no amount of research could have prepared him for this. He slowly makes his way across the roof’s terrace, past the pool, and leans into Levi with an awkward half handshake, half hug. His mind’s too consumed with all the things that can go wrong to ask where they’re headed. “Shall we?” He feels Levi’s hand on his back and before he knows it, he’s sitting inside the chopper, buckled in. Levi hands him a headset, fixing it over his ears. Their fingers brush as Levi’s voice comes over its speaker. “You alright? Hear me okay?” Adam nods mutely, numb from the neck down. The cockpit shakes as the chopper blades roar overhead. Levi confidently flips a few switches and does a pre-takeoff check. He gently pulls on the collective, and Adam feels his stomach drop as they lift off. He clutches firm to his seat belt, daring to peer down at the world dropping away below them. Levi tosses him a smile as they soar higher, cutting through the rosy pink light of the sky. “You alright?” He nods

149 encouragingly. Adam mimics the movement with his head, but he is not good. Nothing about this is good. “Uh, how long—” His voice overtheheadsetstartleshim. “How long haveyou been flying?” Levi shrugs. “’Bout two weeks.” “Two weeks?!” “Relax.” He throws his head back with a laugh. “I’m fucking with you.” Adam cuts his eyes and peers down at the city beneath them, spotting what looks like The St. Langham, but it’s hard to tell. Buildings that once looked so massive and imposing now look minuscule. Bustling streets resemble streams of insects and toy cars. “Everything looks so small,” Adam marvels. “That’s why I like it up here,” Levi purrs. “Really puts things into perspective.” They share a look that’s interrupted as the cockpit sways to one side. Levi grips the collective, adjusting against the turbulence. “Just some rough air,” he says, seeing the panic in Adam’s eyes. “It’s just ‘cause we’re flying over concrete – the streets. It does that.” His hand finds Adam’s knee, giving it a squeeze. He senses the tension locked into Adam’s thigh and his face softens. “Heeey… it’s alright.” Adam feels his throat tightening and forces himself to swallow as his ears pop. “It’s alright. You’re in good hands.” Levi grips Adam’s hand reassuringly. “I won’t let anything happen to you.” The words hit Adam like a sledgehammer. Adam feels the warmth of Levi’s hand that lingers within his own for a second too long. He hears Levi’s soothing voice in his ears over the headset. He sees the tenderness in Levi’s face and allows himself to breathe. 150 Something within him finally breaks, and for the first time in a long time, floating eight thousand feet above the ground, Adam feels safe.

______

Levi touches down on a lush green lawn, miles from the clamor and flurry of the city. Adam has long lost his sense of direction but guesses from the picturesque English countryside that Levi has taken them to Besford. Although… as he takes in the sprawling Jacobean-style manor before them, he wonders if they could be in Oxshott. He really should have spent more time looking over maps before this contract. He knows nothing about London. Levi helps him down from the chopper, and Adam smooths his tousled hair, shielding it from the wind of the blades. He’s glad he wore jeans now. Paired with a pale blue collared shirt and an off-white light jacket he looks like the quintessential weekender. Perhaps even a real Londoner, minus the accent of course. He’ll leave that to Levi. “This is home.” Levi waves to the largest of the buildings on the property. It easily dates back to 1880 with its Renaissance- inspired architecture, detailed russet brickwork, and soaring columns. One-third of the structure is enveloped in tendrils of ivy that has crawled and tangled its way into the facade of the estate house, giving it an old-world charm. There’s a large circular driveway with a running fountain and a row of stables sit to their right. To their left sits a greenhouse and yet another building Adam determines must be staff quarters or a guest house.

151 As they near the main house, Adam peers up four stories to the towering slate rooftop, half expecting to see gargoyles. “This is where I grew up,” Levi says, trying to read Adam’s face. Adam frowns to one side. “I’ve seen bigger.” “Ha!” Levi’s dimples show as he shakes his head. He unlocks the oversized front door and ushers Adam inside. Theirfootstepsechoeerilythroughoutthelargefoyer, halflit by a stained glass skylight overhead. The floors are a polished ornate design of oak and mahogany while dark wooden beams and hand-carved woodworking cover the walls. There are statues of Grecian gods and furniture, all covered in white sheets. The house looks beautiful but abandoned. “I used to think it was haunted when I was little,” Levi’s voice echoes throughout the halls. He looks around, breathing in forgotten memories and dust. “My parents are in Monaco,” he says, which explains why everything is covered. “I like to stay here when they’re away.” He motions for Adam to follow as they make their way deeper into the belly of the manor. Adam listens to Levi’s half attempt at a tour as they pass a library and indoor pool that’s turned acid green without regular maintenance. They finally arrive at the kitchen, which is a gaudy mon- strosity of marble and stainless steel. Levi makes quick work of turning on the lights and opening a bottle of red wine. “To Monaco!” He proposes a toast after filling two crystal goblets. Adam swirls his wine and sits on a stool at the kitchen island, watching Levi rummage through the fridge. “When you said dinner, I didn’t think you’d be cooking.” Levi produces a bag of groceries from the fridge with a 152 receipt attached and pulls out two steaks wrapped in butcher’s paper. “You can’t be in the hotel business without picking up a thing or two from the kitchen.” It’s not long before pots are bubbling and the air smells of spices. The sun begins to set, and its burnt-auburn glow starts to extinguish, leaving the manor in darkness with the exception of the kitchen’s warm glow. “How’s your article coming along?” Levi asks out of the blue. “Good!” Adam’s eyes go wide. “Although I haven’t worked out why you’re giving me the VIP treatment. Helicopters… now dinner.” “It’s called an exclusive.” Adam shoots him a playful glance over the top of his wine glass. “I bet you say that to all the reporters.” “Only the ones Ilike.” Levismirks and turns the steaks. They sizzle in the pan, one side now caramelized and charred to perfection. “Actually, I’ve rather enjoyed having you around.” His accent sounds musical, blending into the Bach playing over the kitchen speakers. “It’s been a hectic few days – anytime there’s a new opening it’s completely draining. These press tours do me in, you know. Just meeting after meeting. Interview after interview.” He pauses and points his tongs at Adam. “You’re different though. You’re not like the rest.” “You haven’t seen what I’ve written so far,” Adam teases. “I’m not worried. I can tell you see through all the bullshit, you know? You see through all the smoke and mirrors. You see through all the pomp and circumstance at these things. Everyone always expects me to put on this big show. I’ve got to be on 24/7…” He frowns and starts chopping a handful of rosemary. “But with you, it’s just… I dunno. It’s like I can just be myself around you.” 153 “It must not be easy bein’ the Chandler ‘gold standard’, everyone expecting you to be like your father.” “Exactly!” Levi shudders and points the knife in Adam’s direction. “That’s exactly it. Or they’re just waiting for me to fail, so they can say I should have become a plastic surgeon, like him! Miserable old git.” Adam can’t help but flinch as Levi talks with his hands, waving the knife around. “You know, I think he had my whole life planned out before I was even born. ‘Born with a silver scalpel’,” Levi mocks, “Just grooming me to take over his practice one day.” “But you started your own empire, without his help.” “I refused to take a cent,” Levi spits with fire in his eyes. “Pretty ballsy.” “See? Like I said, you get me.” Levi grins. “I think I’ll keep you around.” Adam blushes and his eyes fall to a pile of cherries on the cutting board. “My family grows cherries. On our farm,” he finds himself saying out loud. Levi’s eyes light up. “Yeah?” His eyebrows hover, waiting for Adam to elaborate. “Uh, yeah. I mean that’s not all. We grow corn and cabbage and taters, and we have chickens and a few horses. I guess everyone in town knows us for our cherries though.” “Wait.” Levi squints. “Did you say taters?” Adam holds his breath. “And was that an accent I just heard? Bloody hell, Jonathan, where are you from?” “Oh, nowhere you’ve ever heard of.” Adam quickly buries his face in his wine glass, but Levi’s unyielding. “No really, where?” He removes the steaks from the pan to 154 rest. Adam swallows hard before doing something he’s never done with a target. “I’m from a really small town in Tennessee called Sweet Ridge,” he hears himself reveal. “You won’t even find it on most maps. There’s not much there but farmland and bad memories. I haven’t been home to see my ma in a while.” Even as he says this, he can hear his southern drawl returning. “And your father?” “He died,” Adam says unflinching. “Tractor accident.” Levi’s face contorts. “God, that’s awful.” He’s never heard of anyone being mauled to death by a tractor of all things. “I’m so sorry.” “He deserved worse.” Adam’s eyes dim. “He was a monster.” Levi slowly nods, noting the shift in Adam’s body language. His folded arms and the pain rippling across his handsome face say more than any confession. “I’m sorry he hurt you,” Levi says softly. “How old were you?” Adam leans away. “What is this? You interviewing me now?” He forces a laugh, although there’s a sheen to his eyes. “I’ll be askin’ the questions here, mister.” “I just wanna know who you are.” Levi’s voice remains level, but there’s an intensity in his eyes that makes Adam’s heart race. There’s an intimacy in his tone that makes him want to reveal the small-town boy inside and put away the character he’s been wearing over his skin. He wants to tell Levi that his name isn’t Jonathan Morgan, and that he’s not a reporter from The London Herald. He’s just a boy who’s been running from his past for as long as he can remember. “You don’t want to know the things I know, the things I’ve seen…” Adam trails off. “You wouldn’t like me so much, I bet.” Levismilesthatcharismaticsmileofhisand lowerstheflame 155 on the burner. “Everyone has a past. And hey, this might be hard to believe, but I’m no angel myself.” Theyboth cracksmiles, and Adam’sthankfulLevi’slightened the mood. “Is this where you play the billionaire bad boy card?” “Something like that,” Levi smiles coolly and scrapes the bottom of the frying pan with a spatula. “I’ve got my eye on some land in Kentucky. It’s perfect for a farm,” Adam hears himself sharing. “I’m gonna buy it. Start over fresh with just my ma ‘n me.” “That’s your plan?” Levi squints. “You’re gonna buy a farm on a journalist’s salary? Bloody hell, I’m in the wrong business.” “I’ve been tuckin’ some money away,” Adam says confidently. “I’ve got a goal.” “It’s good to have goals,” Levi agrees, pointing the knife again. “When I was younger, I wanted to go to the Olympics, you know, as a job?” He cracks a smile, “Really I just wanted to do anything other than become a doctor.” “So, you swam?” “Actually, yeah.” Levi blinks. “Secondary school and univer- sity swim team. How’d you know that?” “Lucky guess…” Levi stares at him for a tense moment. “Huh.” “Andthepool,”Adam thinksfastandpointsoverhisshoulder. “Most people don’t have indoor pools. I just figured.” “Guess that’s like journalist instincts, huh? Like Sherlock Holmes?” “Sherlock Holmes was a detective. You’re English. You should know that,” Adam laughs. “Technically I’m only half English.” He shrugs his wide shoulders. “Plus, I was never much on school and reading. Hating having to read all those medical journals…” 156 Adam’s face lights up. “I used to love school. I was a science geek. I wanted to go into agronomy.” “Which is?” “Think of it like… the science behind crops and soil. Agri- culture.” “Hmm. Okay. But you became a journalist instead.” Levi squints. “That’s quite a leap, innit?” “You have no idea.” Adam deflates in his seat and watches as Levi adds butter, rosemary, and a splash of beef stock to the pan. He cranks up the heat and grabs a handful of cherries, crushing them in the pan with the back of the spatula. “What’s all that for?” “It’s a sauce for our steaks.” Levi lifts the pan from the burner and douses the mixture with a cup of brandy. He expertly tilts the pan back over the flame and it ignites, sending a loud roar of flames into the air. Adam leans back, mesmerized and frightened as he does a quick check for his eyebrows. Levi shakes the pan, causing the flames to dance. “Are you impressed yet?” His English accent sounds more charming than ever as he shoots Adam a wink. “Us bad boys love playing with fire, you know.” Perhaps it’s the flames, or perhaps it’s Levi’s unabashed talent for flirtation… either way, Adam feels blood rush to his cheeks and starts to melt in his seat. Levi grabs a spoon and has a quick taste. “Mmph! I’ve done it again!” He shouts like a mad scientist. “A masterpiece. Here…” He takes another spoonful of the sauce and walks from behind the island. “Have some.” He blows on the spoon before bringing it to Adam’s lips. Adam wets his lips and slowly opens his mouth, his eyes 157 lockedwithLevi’s. Hefeelsacomfortingwarmthonhistongue, followed by a flood of sweetness and notes of tart cherry. He closes his eyes and relishes the bold flavors in his mouth as a moan escapes. Before he can utter a reply, Levi leans in for another taste. Adam’s lips part and Levi’s tongue rushes in, sending waves of desire and savory sweetness swirling within Adam’s mouth. Their kiss deepens, feeding an insatiable hunger, and Adam can no longer distinguish the taste of Levi’s mouth from the sauce. Both are equally intoxicating. He could drown in this kiss.

••• I hope you enjoyed this excerpt from my novel, Where the Boys Are, available on Barnes & Noble and Amazon. Visit christophermurphybooks.com for more information.

158 159 Like wet stencil signs and torn plastic banners blowing loosely in the wind. That I can recall walking down the foyer steps as the leaves crackled by on the dry concrete. Like ribbons pinned to sweaters and candlelight visuals, when a chill is settling over my arms and I’m holding the hand of the person next to me.

Like posters and slogans circling within me that I remember as I walk down the aisle scared as hell.

Like you on your little soapbox with your red megaphone and that stupid whistle dangling around your neck. And at that exact moment I knew that I loved you as balloons ascended into the air, behind you.

Like flyers on neon yellow paper, dropped and left behind to be plastered to the ground by the rain.

Like freak show parades on leather floats and broken, distorted confetti made of glass. That showered down on us from open apartment windows and balconies.

Like pledges lived for the moment, and radical promises to ourselves that we couldn’t keep.

Like white paint on my fingers the morning after, while I’m in your arms, looking around with dark, enchanted eyes to find that nothing has changed.

But as you kiss my hand and whisper that it’s gonna be okay 160 … as your lips brush against my ring finger and you whisper that it’s gonna be okay …

I feel like for once … you’re right.

161 162 A breeze floats off the Willamette River as runners and lovers holding hands move about the River Walk, taking in the sun- soaked day. Under a cloudless sky, the Saturday Market buzzes with food truck lines and rows upon rows of vendors selling art and handmade goods. From artisan jewelry made from used skateboards to blown glass and farmer’s market wares like “atomic pickles”, there’s something for everyone in the crowd of shoppers. Street performers draw small circles of curious observers along the long stretch of concrete tracing the river, while musicians play for spare change lining the bottom of their guitar and violin cases. Children waddle and run through the sidewalk fountain, screaming in delight as the jets seem to anticipate their every move. Some have come prepared for battle in swimsuits while others, much to their parent’s resignation, have joined in the fun fully clothed, shoes and all. The lawn is sprinkled with people lying on the grass or camped on blankets while “the bubble lady” entertains another set of children. She’s here every Saturday with her bucket of suds and a giant wand made of dowels and rope, casting huge, life-size bubbles floating in the breeze. They glisten with holographic swirls of light before popping or being chased down by grubby hands. Syd takes a huge bite from the Buddha Bowl he’s ordered, containing black beans, brown rice, cilantro salsa, and kimchi with a house tahini sauce that’s a smidge too bitter for his liking. He chews loudly in his red Rose City Rollers t-shirt and cut-off shorts; his bare legs tucked and crossed underneath him as if he’s about to do yoga. He listens to Jace, who sits across from him, bringing him up to speed. They’ve found a shady spot under a tree, away from the 163 bustle of the shoppers and lines of hungry people waiting for food. Jace wears gray shorts and a pale blue tank top he bought on a clothing run, after buying a new laptop. He cracks his toes and wiggles them before burying them in the grass. “So, according to Banks, the truck was stolen three years ago!” He bellows. “Can you believe this shit? The whole thing makes no sense.” “Wait…” Syd swallows and digs a fist into his hip. “How the hell could you not tell me you banged Detective Hottie?” “So, out of everything I just told you, that is what you’re choosing to focus on?” “I mean, I saw you guys together at Ethel’s – but you never told me you slept with him! This is just like episode twenty- four, season two, when Dorothy falls for the detective!” “This is nothing like that.” “Does Derek know?” “God, no!” Jace nearly chokes on his ramen. “And let’s keep it that way. Actually…” He chases down his food with a sip of beer. “Don’t tell him where I’m staying. At least, for now.” “Why not? Are you guys, like, not in a good place?” They’re both momentarily distracted as a jogger passes; his cinnamon skin and bare chest glisten in the sunlight as his shorts cling to his glutes. To top it off, he looks like he might have stepped out of a barbershop recently, and Jace is a sucker for a fresh fade. “Uhm…” He’s forgotten what he was going to say. “Shit. I forgot what I was gonna say!” They both laugh. “I asked what’s up with you two. I thought things were on the up and up with you crashing at his place and all…” 164 “Ugh, right. Things are just so complicated with us – as usual. I’m just not in a good place to rehash anything, and… ” Jace squirms, unsure how to say what comes next. “There’s something off about him lately.” “Off how? Like insanely-jealous off? Cuz you should have heard him that night at Ethel’s. He went ballistic when he saw you with Columbo.” “Who’s Columbo?” “You know. The detective! From TV.” “You’re giving him nicknames now? Don’t do that.” “Why can’t I give him a nickname?” “Thatwholethingisdoneanddone. We’repastthenickname phase.” “But he’s still helping you with the case, right? Even though he’s suspended? That says something.” Jace isn’t sure what it says, but he can’t let himself get tangled up in Banks again. “I just hope he finds something on whoever stole the truck. That could be the key to this whole thing.” Syd chews and asks, “What about all that shit they found hidden behind your bed?” Jace starts to answer but stops short. “I… never said where they found it…” He tilts his head and meets Syd’s blank stare. How can Syd possibly know where Banks’ team discovered the box containing pieces of Graham’s remains? “You told me on the phone. When Iwasconnecting you with Audrey because you needed a lawyer, remember?” He doesn’t. “You were freaking out because they arrested you for this shit you didn’t even know was there,” Syd says. It’s possible. The day he was arrested was a blur. He might have said 165 anything in his state of panic. Also, his recollection of events isn’twhatitusedtobe. He’sstilllosingbitsoftime,andthedays seem to easily bleed into the next ever since he was released on bail. Syd’s face is unflinching. “You seriously don’t remember?” “No, I, uhm. Yeah, I guess I just forgot for a second. That day was so crazy.” Syd shoots him a wary look before changing the subject. “Wanna hear something else crazy?” “Sure.” “Ifinallytooktheplunge! Iappliedforabusinessloantostart my own non-profit. I got the call yesterday that I’m approved!” “Syd! That’s fucking amazing.” “I start shaking just thinking about it,” he grins. “It’s starting to feel real! I’ve already looked at a few buildings that could offer room for boarding… I have some people in mind for staff – just to get things started, you know?” “Yeah, right…” “And Audrey’s helping with all the legal stuff,” he waves a hand. “I have to register a name, get permits. Ugh. So much to do, still.” “I’m seriously impressed. At least one of us has our shit together. I’m proud of you.” Jace pauses as an older couple passes, giving him a long, inquisitive look. He sharply turns his head in the opposite direction and mutters, “So much for no one recognizing me. That’s the third time today.” “Maybe they think you’re a celebrity. Like a movie star,” Syd smirks. “You know they think we all look the same.” Jace wonders who might be cast to portray him in the inevitably bad TV drama to come, rehashing the events surrounding Graham’s murder. His face drains its color and 166 he rolls his neck in a tense circle. “I’m just tired of it. Anyway, congrats again on your loan. That’s a big first step.” “Angel’s taking me salsa dancing tonight to celebrate.” Jace passes him a surprised glance. “Yeah? So, things are back on with you two?” “We had a long talk. I basically came out to him.” He grabs a sip of Jace’s beer before continuing. “I could tell he was a little embarrassed he didn’t know. He asked why I didn’t tell him before.” “What did you say?” “I mean, it’s not like being trans comes with an instruction manual, you know? When is the right time to tell someone you’re interested in?” “You did it when you were ready. That’s important.” His eyes make a circle as he shrugs. “I told him if it’s is a deal-breaker, that’s fine, but I’m gonna keep bein’ me all day long.” “I know that’s right,” Jace shakes his head. “Life’s too damn short to live it for someone else.” “Exactly!” “Well, you know I love you, and I’m proud of you.” Jace makes a sappy face. “Thanks, babe. You know what, though? He actually surprised me! He’s not… hung up on it like I was worried he might be. He said he just feels a little lost and doesn’t want to fuck things up. He’s never dated a trans man before.” He stops to aim a finger at a pregnant woman walking by. “It’s a girl,” he chirps matter-of-factly. Syd has two hidden talents. One is being double-jointed, which is mostly useless outside the bedroom; the other is 167 the innate ability to predict the sex of unborn babies in his presence. It’s an odd claim, but for as long as Jace has known him,Sydhasneverbeenwrong. Likeanoraclewhohascrossed over,worldlyofadimensionfewunderstand, he’sbeengranted a sixth sense for doing gender reveals. It’s quite the party trick. Any time someone announces they’re pregnant, he guesses correctly well before the sonogram. Among his circle, he’s the go-to once women find out they’re pregnant and want to start planning what color to decorate their nursery in. He’s made at least fifteen correct predictions Jace can think of offhand, including two of his co-workers, five waitresses, Derek’s cousin, Brenda, and a cashier who wasn’t even aware she was pregnant at the time. When his co-worker, Sara, who had been trying for years to conceive, came into work with news of twins, he correctly predicted boys but didn’t have the heart to tell her one was already gone. Every gift has its curse. “Anyway, we’re just gonna take things slow.” He gathers his locks into a bun on top of his head using a hair tie on his wrist. “Starting with tonight.” “Slow is good.” “Although…” A devilish smile grazes his lips. “I really wanna jump his bones!” They burst into a fit of laughter, and Jace retorts, “‘Jump his bones’?! Did you really just say that?” “He’s just so yummy. And those dimples!” Syd swoons, channeling a boy-struck Sydney Aldridge from the depths of his teenage diary. “I’m gonna try to behave, but no promises.” Jace smirks and finishes the last of his ramen. 168 “What are you up to later tonight?” “Aside from stress-eating and trying to prove my innocence? Not much!” “You’ll get through this,” Syd says soothingly and stretches out his legs that have fallen asleep. “You’re the smartest person I know, and you’re no killer.” Jace gives a weak smile. “Audrey will not let you go to prison. She’s on it. Trust me.” Jace peers off over the horizon of the river, unsure of his fate and what the next few days will hold. The only thing he’s sure of is that time is not a luxury he has. He’s staring down the barrel of a gun… with no clue whose finger is on the trigger.

••• I hope you enjoyed this excerpt from my novel, The Other Side of the Mirror, available on Barnes & Noble and Amazon. Visit christophermurphybooks.com for more information.

169 170 He sat there on the dirty, sunken mattress, staring placidly at the empty canvas that stood before him. His bare feet were planted on the cold, gray concrete that had with time become a piece of art in itself. Paint, having splattered and drizzled down like acrylic icing from his previous works onto the oatmeal floor. A mural of his own carelessness, it seemed. He smiled at the irony of it and held his cigarette loosely in his hand. His fifth for the day, which he thought to be an accomplishment. Cutting back was never easy, he had found after nearly six weeks of patches and nicotine gum that tasted like shit. But five isn’t bad. “Not at all,” he thought, letting the smoke spill out of his mouth and into the air. He was in his studio – his basement actually; stale and brightly lit, creating a stagnant energy that forced his eyes to remain open and drove the monsters away. He suddenly thought about tomorrow and the preparation he’d have to do for Marlo’s show. Why she had insisted on having a fall showing was beyond him, but as the feature artist he had little room to complain. The starving artist was an endangered species thriving off the kindness of strangers who always seemed to have more money than they knew what to do with. He used to respect Marlo and her… “vision.” “That’s what she calls it.” But now it was painfully obvious that she was just another player in the game of who-got-who-for-the-latest-showcase and who-was-on-the-guest-list-for-the-after-party. He almost laughed out loud, envisioning himself, a week from now, drenched in overhead champagne track lighting 171 and five-figure bids on pieces that he knew were less than his best work. Pieces his five-year-old nephew could have likely done. Finger-paints and crayons, he smirked. To hell with talent and politics. Forget names that change as often as the seasons. He’s just a group of letters smeared across tightly stretched canvas, hand-done and vibrantly romantic. He’s the artist without a name.

172 173 Love is when… Writing Challenge Tell a story in 100 words using the phrase “love is when”

SUBMISSION:

Gus wipes his tears and adjusts his goggles. He’s in his lab, losing time and patience. It’s trial #14, heartbreak #14 and this time he’s certain the formula will work. Elle and the others were all failed experiments in love that’s left him shattered! Although there’s no scientific definition of love, Gus knows its highs and lows well. Love is euphoric. Love is when you can’t sleep without the one you care for beside you. But love is also heartbreak… and the pill he’s creating is the cure. It must be. Gus puts the pill on his tongue… and swallows.

174 175 After my shift at the gallery, I stopped by Blue to find the doors locked with Ian inside, wiping down tables. He walked to the door with that walk of his and his tall, basketball frame, surprised to discover me peering through the glass. “Sorry,” I stuffed my hands in the pocket of my blazer, “I didn’t know you were closed.” “Yeah, closed early,” he said with a tone as he let me in. “What’s up? Everything okay with Caren?” “No change. Don’t mean to alarm you by poppin’ up. I just came by to check the place out, and maybe talk for a minute?” Ian shrugged in his tight black tank top and wiped the sweat from his brow, giving me a good look at the tattoos covering his shoulders and thick biceps. There was a large cross and some script that I couldn’t read fast enough. “Yeah, I was just breakin’ down for the night an’ cleanin’ up a bit.” I watched as he wiped his large hands on the black apron tied loosely about his waist and offered a smile, “Need a hand?” He assigned me to wipe down tables as he flipped chairs to sweep the floor. Meanwhile, I took the time to soak in Caren’s influence sprinkled throughout the club. It wasn’t a large space but the layout compensated. There was a small sitting area near the hostess stand with an antique Victorian sofa and side table. Around the corner were tables and chairs, circling the hardwood dance floor in front of the stage that housed a drum set, three mics, and a few stools. At the rear, I found the bar, which was a rich mahogany color with a collage of glass bottles lining its shelves. Despite the club’s older elements, there was a modern Harlem flair to it. Old record covers plastered the back wall of the bar and a cluster of vintage chandeliers hung over the stage. There was an aged copper tin ceiling and the room was a deep burnt orange. The stage was a gloss black 176 color with old-fashioned foot lights and ornate drapery in the background. A soft blue glow hung over the stage from the lights above, casting a certain romance over the empty stage that I was drawn to. I tried to imagine what artists had performed there. Had there been anyone famous? Anyone I’d heard of – or recalled her listening to during our teenage years? I looked to Ian who quietly moved about, remaining just as mysterious as the void on stage. “So what do you know about Marcus Grier?” I dared to ask, shattering the silence. He paused for only a moment, then continued sweeping under one of the wobbly tables. “Not much. Caren said you two had a thing, that’s why she didn’t marry him.” “It wasn’t a thing. It was more like a one-time thing that I never saw coming.” I instantly launched into the entire story, telling him about the tea, the football game and an array of irrelevant details surrounding the kiss. Ian sort of nodded and continued with his work, “She didn’t say much ‘bout him but I get the impression he’s like this perfect prince charmin’ type?” “He’s alright.” I frowned, giving Marcus less than his dues. “He’s the reason we stopped speaking though. I’m sure she’s told you I’m the black sheep in the family.” “She said you two weren’t close or much alike.” As true as that was it still hurt to hear a stranger convey this as I bussed his tables. “I’m not really the monster you probably think I am,” I stated for the record. Ian stopped sweeping, “Look, man… I don’t think you’re a monster. Actually, I think it’s none of my business, and I’d rather not get involved. I know you and Caren never patched things up and I get that this is hard with her being in the

177 hospital. Really, I get it. I don’t know much ‘bout this Marcus dude and I really got bigger things to worry ‘bout ‘round here with Caren gone.” “Like what?” He nearly laughed. “It’s eight-thirty and I’m closed! This place is goin’ under, in case you haven’t noticed.” I glanced around at the lifeless tables. “If Caren wakes up she might be unemployed when she gets out. Hell, both of us,” he said. “We worked so hard to get this place up and runnin’ and now… shit, one of my waitresses just quit Monday, the place hasn’t been packed in over a month, and we’re hurtin’ bad for new acts.” I crossed my arms, “Maybe I can help!” He smirked and raised his eyebrows which were thick and bold like exclamation points. “You sing?” He asked. “Not really. No.” “You got experience waitin’ tables?” I laughed. He crossed his muscular arms and gave me a dull look. “You’re a lifesaver.” “Well, hey, look, I usually DJ at 7. Maybe I could come in and do a set on a Friday or somethin’.” “This is a jazz club. People expect live music.” He shook his head and went back to sweeping, leaving me with my rag in hand and a puzzled expression. “How did you meet Caren anyway?” I was really asking how Caren had come to choose such a dismal business partner. “We met after an Esperanza Spalding concert a few years back.” He smiled and pulled his jeans back onto his hips. “She bought me a drink and we just started talkin’ and hangin’ out afterwards. Turns out we didn’t live far from each other.” 178 She had bought him a drink? “Did you two date?” He squinted at me. “You’re full of questions.” “I‘m just trying to connect the dots and you happen to be the closest person to my sister, so…” Deal with it. “We never dated,” he said. “We’re just friends. Business partners.” “Right.” I nodded, not sure why I didn’t fully believe that. “Soon to be former business partners.” He hung his head and sat on one of the barstools. He suddenly looked exhausted. There was something in his eyes that seemed to weigh down his entire mood. I recognized that same look from when he introduced himself in Caren’s hospital room. “I hope you don’t blame me,” he said out of nowhere. “Blame you?” “Fortheaccident. Youknow,IguessIkeepthinkin’ifIhadn’t told her to leave early that night then maybe…” “No.” I walked towards him. “No, that hadn’t occurred to me at all. There’s no one to blame,” I said. “This is just… life happening, I guess.” “We were just so slow that night…” I nodded and took the seat beside him. He looked relieved and there was a moment of thick silence between us. “I really hope she pulls through,” he tried to reassure me. “I know you two have some major catchin’ up to do.” “She will,” I said. “And we will if she doesn’t still hate me!” “She doesn’t hate you. You two just have a lot to talk about… with the help of a therapist.” He said and we both laughed. His laugh reminded me of Jack’s laugh. It was boisterous and full of life, like a warm hearty bowl of soup. Food for the soul. 179 “Hey, you wan’ a beer?” The clouds around him suddenly broke and he shot me an award-winning smile I couldn’t resist. Ian played bartender while we chatted for a while. With the lights dim and XM Radio jazz playing softly in the background, he seemed to transform into a different person once on the othersideofthebar. Hewasnolongerthequiet-spoken,rough around the edges business partner my sister had confided in. He was suddenly charming company with a handsome way, witty banter, and a great ear for listening. He was surprisingly easy to get along with and all awkwardness between us melted onto the bar and became an afterthought. He indeed made a perfect bartender. “So what’s the deal with you and this Marcus guy anyway?” He finally asked after his second Heineken. “The real deal.” “Trust me, there’s no deal,” I said. “I was young when it happened and still sort of finding myself. It was a mistake.” “Imeanisdudeyourtype?” Heaskedthenimmediatelymade a face that wished he hadn’t. “Sorry.” “No, it’s fine, I mean –” I winced and took a swig of my Corona. “I wouldn’t say he’s my type. He’s very confused about what he’s looking for. Obviously.” “Obviously,” he smirked. “I’m not really sure I have a type though. Certain qualities I look for, yes, but if I had a type it wouldn’t be Marcus.” He nodded as if he understood. “I’m not sure what Caren saw in him. He doesn’t sound like her type either.” “No?” “Naw, she’s all into bad boys these days. Loves guys with tats, guys that ride bikes…” He rolled his eyes. “Guess that’s what women do after they get burned.” Caren had given up on Prince Charming for a black knight 180 with a motorcycle? Wonders never cease. “Mmm!” my eyes widened. “Did I tell you he came to see Caren?” “Marcus? When was this?” “Just the other day. It turns out he’s the one who gave the hospital my number.” Ian had a quick aha moment. “Anyway, now he says he wants to talk about what happened between us and blah blah blah. It’s just too much.” “Interestin’,” he huffed. “Like, I never got the sense that they kept in touch… He’s never been in here or anything.” “That is weird how he just showed up outta nowhere,” I agreed. “So now he wants to talk to you, huh? Maybe reconcile?” He teased with a grin. “Please. There will be no reconciliation or anything of the like. Marcus is dead to me. The only thing I care about is Caren pullin’ through this.” “Yeah, you right.” He pressed his lips together and slowly nodded to himself, “I don’t know what I’d do without her.” “That makes two of us. She’s all the real family I have left.” “What about your dad?” “Joseph lives in an assisted living home now.” My voice nearly broke at the mention of him. “He was diagnosed with dementia a few years back. He doesn’t even know me anymore when Ivisit.” Ihunched my shoulders. Iwasgrowing sad atthe thought of him. “It’s hard seein’ him regress. Some days, he’s clearand he hasa good grasp on things, and then some dayshe thinks Delores is still alive or he’s five years old or he thinks the nurses are all students of his.” I smiled and explained, “He used to be a science teacher.” “Your real dad?” 181 “No, Joseph, our adopted dad.” “What about your real dad?” I laughed, “I doubt he’s a science teacher, but your guess is as good as mine.” “You don’t know what he does?” “How the hell would I know?” I laughed, “I’ve never met the man.” He put down his beer and made a face. “What?” “Idon’tknow whomyfatheris,” Isaid, notknowinghow else to make him understand. “I have an idea of who our mother was only because she had a drug record a mile long, and then there’s the death certificate of course, but I have no idea who our father is – or was – or… anything really. The courts have no information on him, and I could never find anything on my own so…” I frowned but fought through the cloud that had suddenly consumed me. “I’m not saying I’ve given up though.” Ian narrowed his eyes at me as I leaned in. “I know this sounds strange, but every now and then I get this feeling like he’s still out there. Sometimes, it’s like he’s right under my nose. It’s hard to explain.” Ian rested his hands on the bar and his eyebrows drew tight. “You really don’t know, do you?” “I told you, I never met him. I could pass him on the street and not know it.” “No I mean, she didn’t tell you…” I looked up to see that his entire face had lost its color. “Tell me what?” He dropped his shoulders and his gaze drifted down to his empty beer bottle. “Shit. I’ve probably said too much already. Look man, Caren should be the one to tell you.” My heart began to pound against my ribcage. “Tell me what?” 182 “It’s not my place.” He went to take a sip but forgot the bottle was empty. “I shouldn’t get involved.” “Ian, look, you have to help me out here!” I nearly jumped out of my seat. “You’re the only person I can turn to for answers. Are you saying Caren knows something? About our real father?” I watched him squirm. “I just know she was doin’ some research, trying to find out his identity – and she found something.” As usual, I instantly feared the worst. “He’s dead, isn’t he?” He leaned into the bar and let out a sigh, “Caren found him. Your real… father.” He watched for my reaction, hoping I wouldn’t have some sort of meltdown. Meanwhile, I could barely breathe. “Please say something.” He crossed his arms uncomfortably. “Well, shit!” I exploded, “Who is he? Where is he? What did she tell you?!” I smiled, stunned by the gift that had just fallen into my lap. Ian’s dismal expression never lifted however. “I don’t know.” “She didn’t tell you anything?” He shook his head. “She just said that she’d found him, but I remember her sayin’ something about him being right under her nose all this time… or something like that. It was weird!” He hunched his shoulders, and I caught another good eyeful of his tattoo and a name this time. Daniel? No, wait… Danielle. Likely the name of a girlfriend or his baby momma. That confirmed it. Straight as an arrow. “She didn’t go into any details, so I didn’t ask.” He threw up his hands, signaling for me to back off. “She seemed real sensitive about it so I left it alone. Okay?” I felt sick to my stomach. The one person who actually knew the identity of my real father was miles away, silenced by a 183 coma. Even if Caren had forgiven me after all this time… even if she wanted to tell me who our father was, she couldn’t. Now the stakes were higher. Caren’s survival was the only means of discovering the secret she kept locked within her – and if she died, my father’s identity would die with her. “I should go,” I said. “I shouldn’t have come here like this anyway.” His eyes softened and I saw a glimpse of the kind stranger from the cafeteria line. “Don’t go. Have another beer and let’s… I don’t know. You’ll figure this out, but don’t leave like this.” I wondered if he feared I would drive off and receive the samefateasCaren. Perhapshefeltcursed and stillguiltyinside of his chiseled façade. “I didn’t mean to stay long anyway.” I shrugged, too overwhelmed to aim at being convincing, “I have a thing to get to.” “A thing?” “Right.” I shrugged. “Look, thanks for the beer. I should run.” I didn’t give him a chance to walk from behind the bar. I left him there, holding his empty beer bottle and a scowl on his face. I left him wondering if he’d just made a huge mistake.

••• Excerpt from my novel, Ever After.

184 185 She watches… And waits. But not in that dramatic, prolonged way that nests on your tongue, Dry, And at a loss for words. She’s burgundy. She’s in love. Like Merlot, when she’s blushing and sassy in a chiffon strapless. Done and overdone with rhythmic precision, Balancing hardcover books on her head and dirty coffee mugs… Once kissed by crimson lips, Once kissed by the darkened warmth of a Tuesday evening alone at the 3rd Street Diner.

She’s burgundy. Red with her idle fingernails, hugging the white porcelain. Watching… Waiting… For the sugar to dissolve.

186 187 Seems like every time he tries to close his eyes the shadows sink in. Like a warm washcloth over his face in the dirty bathtub with tracked flowers on the bottom. And he sighs with a glimmer that says damn in his eyes so blue, when two Aleves later he’s wondering where I am. Like Gin in a half-empty glass, when I’m around, And he just can’t get enough of my love, And he’d down the whole bottle… if I didn’t keep it locked away. Just when he thought I was gone and it was safe to swallow Just when he thought I was gone and the he dares to dream. Just when the last drop hits his tongue … His eyes snap open

And he finds himself alone.

188 189 She dances on air with Lee press-on finesse and a gloss on her smile that could blind his stare. When she dares to bat her eyes, Like the Maybelline Queen that she is.

And she talks in her sleep, with salty cucumber eyes And a green flaky mask that she can’t disguise. Behind those cinnamon brown compacts, and pink sponge rollers

She’s a dressing room indisposed. A defective diva that nobody knows.

A runway without the camera lightning, and stiletto shoes Strapped to her red ankles.

Strutting with cat-like precision.

Sashay.

190 191 He cries.

It’s 12:52 and they’re off somewhere laughing. Dark, worn circles capturing glassy thoughts, too selfish to be his own. And it’ll be dark when they stagger home. The christmas lights burnt out and sizzling with every blink of his long lashes. But he’s happy, sometimes, when they’re all pretending it doesn’t matter. When she’s not around, and he’s not hanging on her every word. Sloppy and wet, it seems, As he throws away a love too easily shattered.

And he hides from himself. Refracted lights in his voice, coming back to him as clearly as the day before, When he’s looking in. Looking out.

At me, While I refuse to be second choice.

It’s 1:07 and he’s lost somewhere, beside himself. Scratching as he wonders why it won’t go away. Like fluorescent stenciling on the walls that he ignores in a warm daze. Ignoring the warning signs like vinegar on his tongue

And he cries when I’m not there… 192 As if he cares.

193 194 You never knew how many nights I cried myself to sleep. My tired, red eyes. Fists beaten into pillows, fingers dug, twisted into the wet fabric. Sobs choked, smothered, too weak to be heard. You never knew how many stars I wished upon. Standing in the cold, wet air. My eyes closed, head tilted up towards a black sky, Littered with glitter. My breaths escaping from my chapped lips like cigar smoke. You never knew how much I prayed. Knees down on the bare floor, hands clasped tightly, asking God for His sweet mercy. Asking for a miracle. You never knew how many nightmares I conjured. My sweat-soaked body twisting, tying itself in the web of sheets. Clawing at the air, Eyes moving behind closed lids. Captured. You never knew how little I had to laugh about. My smiles rehearsed, the warm stage lights, beaded-up anxiety, running down my pale face. My papier-mâché mask. You never knew how many times I bit my lip. Harboring all of my discernment and frazzled fingernails, mere stubs chewed down to the meat. My thoughts locked away and rusting. You never knew how many times I fell on my face. Stumbling to catch up to you, when you refused to take my hand. When the traffic light swinging in the breeze turned green. You never knew how much I loved you For reasons as vivid as a mirage, sweet delusions and blurred, watered-down antidotes. 195 Reasons that could only be fabricated by you.

196 197 My Aunt Ava’s a film star. Well, tobeexact… she was afilm star… inthelate‘50s,before Technicolor and HDTV and all that rot… And she’s really my great aunt, although she insists she’s in her late-forties. She swears it. Even when I point out the math, she just bats her false eyelashes impatiently and waves me off. We’re an odd pair, Ava and I. I’ve been living with her ever since my mother came home early and caught me and my Puerto Rican boyfriend, Javier, playing buttgammon after school. Humiliating. The worst part is that Javier broke up with me two days later, and I never got my Duran Duran CD back from him. Wanker! Ava was insistent that I move in with her, into her lavish Covington estate that she barely keeps running with a team of disgruntled landscapers, underpaid Venezuelan servants, and a decrepit old driver that refuses to take the highway system. It wasn’t an offer really… More like a prescription that I should live with her. She’ll know what to do with me, mother must have thought. “Your mother’s in denial, Jackie. I always knew you were a nancy,” Ava said without emotion. “You used to wear my pearls and pretend you were Clara Bow.” I might have worn her pearls – once – but the whole Clara Bow business was bollocks. At thirteen, I couldn’t have known who the bloody hellClara Bow wasany more than Iknew who Robert Taylor or Deborah Kerr were. (Both of whom she’s done film roles with, by the way.) Ava was a regular starlet in her prime, never landing any leads, but always supporting roles. She was the Ethel Mertz to leading ladies like Audrey Hepburn and Marilyn Monroe. People didn’t always know her 198 name, but her face and that demure smile of hers on camera were unmistakable. Her off-camera smile is more like a smirk these days. Ac- cented by traces of wrinkles she keeps killing off with botox and surgery. She’s shameless about it. Finds a certain glamour in it, I suppose. I don’t mean to suggest she’s not attractive for her age or even requires the surgeries, mind you! She’s aged gracefully, much to the absolute horror of her lady friends. Nothing delights Ava more than an afternoon of shopping with the girls and squeezing herself into a dress one size smaller than the rest. All in good fun, she says. As I’ve mentioned, we’re nothing alike and she’s a terrible influence on an impressionable child, such as I was when I came to live with her. At Ava’s, there were no curfews, locks on the bar, or vegetables at dinner unless I asked for them. Her secondhand smoke eventually drove me to chain-smoke during my last year of junior high and her cocktail parties and blatant antics straddled the line of free will and insanity. “Go on darling, taketheBenz and stayoutaslateasyou like!” “I haven’t got my driver’s permit yet!” I cried. “Betteryet,invitesomeboysoverandwe’llhaveaparty!” Her thick English accent seeped through her words. “We’ll have cocktails and then smash the sodding place! Rosa will clean up in the morning. Don’t worry. It’ll be tops! Just fabulous, darling! I’ll call the caterer…” Something like this would never have occurred at my parent’s. They’d raised me to be responsible. Respectable, even! Who did I think I was, walking around smoking Lucky Strikes and mixing martinis at three in the afternoon? “That devil woman’s to blame!” My father swore. “She’s 199 mad.” Mad? Well. She does dressasifshe’sgoingtotheopera(everyday)… And she does use some pretty colorful words, like “dame” and (See You Next Tuesday) to depict her friends – her best friends, Evelyn and Abigail, who are on the Red Hat Society. Plus, she adores anything that’s remotely gay or the slightest bit offbeat… Did that make her mad? I didn’t care. Iwasabitofan oik when Icameto livewith her,butover time I grew less impressed with her ostentatious episodes and came to love her less than lady-like theatrics. How others loathed it, though! Oh, they abhorred it! Even my earliest memories of her included my family rolling their eyes when she’d arrive late to some family function half-high with her minkandsomeyoungblokethatlookedlikeaguitaristhanging off her shoulder. I remember her exclaiming, “Happy Kwanza!” Although it was July, and then she readjusted the traditional Pakistani headdress on her head. Why can’t she just be normal, everyone wondered. Mean- while. I just couldn’t figure out where she’d found a jeweled Indian headdress – a real one! (I tried it on later, when no one was looking.) Anyway, Ava and I got along like peaches and cream. Or, in our case, gin and tonic. I came and went as I pleased between college classes. Living at home instead of the dorms at Westminster had its subjective benefits… • No sharing of showers – I had my own wing of the house. • No loud parties in the middle of the night – unless Ava 200 and I were entertaining ourselves. • No drunken frat boys lingering around…

Actually, I could have done with that last bit. Gentlemen callers were a rarity in the Turnbull household. I figured I was far too ugly for any boys at school to take me seriously. I’d love to tell you I resemble a young Hugh Grant or a dashing Rupert Everett at his peak. I won’t lie to you though. I’m a bit thick around the waist and my hair never lays right. I’m a regular Mr. Magoo without my glasses and I’ve always had bad skin. Not what you were picturing? Suffice it to say, my endeavors at love only resulted in mediocre sex and childish notions I’d entertain until their phone calls inevitably stopped. Ava had her share of male “associates”, all of whom she made painstaking efforts to keep asmutualfriends. Itwasobvioustheyadoredheranditseemed every six months she received a marriage proposal, however serious. “The last thing I need is some old fool bossing up my affairs,” she said with her nose aimed to the gold leaf ceiling of the parlor. We were having traditional tea (cocktails) and crumpets (olives) as she so fashionably insisted we do on Sundays. “But you know how Mr. Charles fancies you!” I played devil’s advocate. “He asked me just last week what your birthstone is…” Her eyes grew large. “Did you tell him diamonds?” “I did.” It’s sapphires. “Well, I can’t possibly marry him.” She reasoned. “Charles doesn’t know the first thing about theatre. How could we go 201 anywhere together?” “So stay stuffed up in your suite all day, shagging your brains out,” I teased. “Darling, your auntie doesn’t shag.” She rolled her eyes. “I make love. Passion! Fireworks, darling, haven’t you seen them illuminating the sky?!” “Is that what that was the other night? Thought it was the neighbor’s car backfiring again…” “Wherever did you get such a smart mouth on you?” She squinted. I raised my glass to toast her and we both laughed. It’s easy to laugh around Ava… although my own lack of a serious love life often left me restless. I had flings, not relationships. Affairs, not commitments. It was all tiring and much more desperate than I ever let on. I was certain it was hopeless. Until…

***

“Heeeeee’s awfully handsome!” One aimless summer afternoon, Ava caught me chatting online with Frank, this bloke from school I’d aimlessly bumped into on one of the gay chat sites. He was shirtless on the web cam and neither of us had seen Ava walk in. She stood there in a full evening gown, a glittering tiara, and one of her old furs with the head still attached. Its beady, taxidermied eyes stared back at me in my frumpy pajamas, as if questioning why I wasn’t in my tuxedo and hat. “Is that live?!” She barked, fascinated once again by technol- ogy. “Don’t let him see you!” I cut my eyes at her. “And before 202 you lay in, I’ve only chatted with him for a week…” On my old computer with the broken mic. I’d refused to let Ava buy me a new one. “Oh, he’s very handsome!” She ignored me. “And he can see you?” “Yes. Don’t let him see you!” She crossed her arms and watched the screen for a moment. Puzzled, as if this were some kind of wizardry or black magic. “Have you seen his sausage on the computer?” She tested. “Ava!” “Noooo, have you?” She giggled. “Of course you have.” I hate it when she’s right. [CHIME] Cutebritboy82: Everything alright mate? I smiled into my laptop and typed: Right. Just talking to my aunt. She’s senile. “I resent that.” Ava glared with a mouthful of smoke, then exhaled a cloud of spite over my head. [CHIME] Cutebritboy82: Id like to meet her one day. I like old people “Old?!” She erupted. “Stop reading over my shoulder.” “I am for-ty-seven.” She chirped. “I’m young enough to be his mother!” Jacknimble: extremely senile. Cutebritboy82: cant be worse than my old man. He talks to ghosts. Jacknimble: you believe in spirits? I was intrigued now. Cutebritboy82: notrelly. Ithinkhe’sjustmadorwants 203 attention. Jacknimble: Think so? “You know I saw a ghost once.” Ava nodded matter-of-factly and sat on the edge of my desk. “It looked like the ghost of Greta Garbo. She was all pale and beautiful and she was speaking to me but there were no words! No subtitles either.” [CHIME] Cutebritboy82: probably. Or maybe he wants us to put him in a home cuz he’s sick of mother lol “You know she retired at 36?” “Who?” I asked. “Greta Garbo. 36. Lucky slag.” Ava had worked well into her (actual) forties. It’s a long, tiresome story I think I’ll spare you. “What’s this fellow’s name anyway?” “Frank.” I tried to avoid eye contact with her. “He goes to Westminster.” “Hi Frank, darling!” Ava poked her head in front of me and waved excitedly into the camera. “Can he hear me?” She squinted. “Mic’s broken remember?” [CHIME] Cutebritboy82: hi there J Frank beamed a brilliant smile to match. “I wish you’d find something constructive. Go drink some- thing!” I waved her off. “Fine, fine, darling. I’ll just leave you and Mary Palm and her five sisters alone then, right.” She winked. “Don’t worry about meeeee, darling. I’ll go have a nice glass of Pinot Noir.” “Fine.” She picked up the train of her gown and waltzed out. Then 204 she quickly poked her head through the door once more. “Shall I make you one?” I deflated a bit. “Please.” “Right. I’ll be back.” “Fine.” [CHIME] Cutebritboy82: she looks nice- your aunt. Jacknimble: She is. You would love her if you met her. Cutebritboy82: … if? Jacknimble: WE haven’t even met yet. Officially I mean. Cutebritboy82: what do you suppose we do about that *wink* Iinstantlyfeltmynerveskickin. Dragonfliesswarmedabout my insides. The truth is: I’m no good at dating. I sweat and my words get all tangled and by the end of the night I’ve managed to make a complete git of myself. Besides, this was all fine over the computer, but in person – in real life – Frank wouldn’t look twice at someone like me. [ANNOYING CHIME] Cutebritboy82: u there jack? Jacknimble: right. I’ll have to let you know when I’m free. I watched him smirk and start typing intensely… Cutebritboy82: howaboutcoffeeorwecouldseeafilm at the Waldorf? How about this Friday? The bad thing about webcams is that you can’t hide what you’re thinking. I was sure the angst on my face gave me away, despite the patronizing smiley face I was sure to add… Jacknimble: JSounds fun… Idon’tthink Friday isgood 205 for me though. He clearly frowned into the camera.

***

“Darling, darling, sweetie!” My eyes snapped open. “Jackie, darling wake up! It’s an emergency. A travesty’s occurred!” “What? What is it?!” I sat up wildly in bed and removed my sleep mask. Ava was sitting on my bed with this terrified look in her green eyes. Her hair was swept into this tall beehive of pink rollers and her face was covered in cold cream. She looked like a fancy dessert. “Darling!” She clutched her heart and paused for emphasis. “I’ve been bamboozled,” She said, completely serious. I sighed, realizing this was only another of her theatrics. “It’s four in the bloody morning, Ava. I have an exam tomorrow…” “Sweetie, it’s Charles! He tricked me into having dinner with him at Haggard’s.” “Sooo? And what do you mean tricked you?” “I’ll tell you! He asked me, ‘Ava are you free this coming Friday’ and I said ‘Well, yes, I think so’ and then he said, ‘You’re suuuure you have nothing to do’ and I laughed and said, ‘Not a thing, now Charles why do you ask?’ And DO YOU KNOW what he said?!” “I haven’t the foggiest.” “He said, ‘I just want to make sure you don’t have an excuse to not dine with me at Haggard’s this Friday. Now that I know you’re free, I’ll send a car for you at six!’” She was right. Bamboozled. I couldn’t help but laugh. 206 “It’s no laughing matter, darling!” She looked genuinely offended and grabbed for her pearls, which were still lying in her jewelry box by now. “Do you know what happens at Haggard’s?” She quizzed. “Huh? Do you know, darling?” “No, Ava. What happens?” I was half listening to her, thinking mostly of how I would ever get back to sleep now. I’d need a warm nightcap for certain… perhaps something with brandy… or amaretto… mixed in with a chocolate perhaps. Mother used to make me hot chocolate to put me to sleep and it would work like a charm. “Haggard’s is infamous for engagements – everyone knows that!” She sucked her teeth. “There’s no other reason to go there unless you’ll be offered a ring – the food is mediocre, the lighting is too harsh and I hear the service is atrocious! Charles is up to something!” She declared. “Just decline his offer if you’re so serious about clinging to your blasted ‘independence’.” I rolled my eyes, knowing what would come next… “A woman’s independence is her only security,” she said for the millionth time. “Right, well you’re plenty secure then,” I marveled. “I feel sorry for poor Mr. Charles. All he wants is a family.” “Poor Mr. Charles?” She nearly keeled over. “And what of your poor Auntie Ava? Tricked into matrimony! Swindled into marriage?!” “You’ll handle yourself gracefully, as you always do,” I laid back down and pulled the covers to my chin. “Just tell him no in the sweetest possible way.” “Darling you know I have trouble saying no… I just don’t know if I can break that poor man’s heart!” She swooned. “Surely he’ll be devastated! He’ll be undoubtedly embarrassed 207 at the least.” “Break it to him gently, Ava…” “Come with me, darling!” “What?” “Yes, yes! Come with me!” She nodded. “I’ll need you to catch me if I go stiff and faint.” “You’ll be fine.” “Noooo…” She pouted. “I won’t be, Jackie.” I knew she was right. Charles was different from the rest. After five minutes alone with him and however many carats he planned to blind her with, she’d be Mrs. Ava Gregory Turnbull- Vincent. I watched her face sadden. Her wrinkles became more pronounced until she looked older than I’ve ever seen her. “Come with me, Jackie – and bring your friend! It’ll be fun then. Tops. For both of us. Really…” I smothered a stream of obscenities and sighed.

***

Our server gave the four of us equally confused glances as he handed out the menus. I could tell he honestly didn’t know what to make of the scene. There, under the yellow glow of crystal chandeliers, in our round leather booth sat Ava, dressed up like the queen of the night in her black poofy ball gown and satin gloves… next to Mr. Charles in his pale blue tuxedo and mismatched top hat, looking much like a walrus. Then sat Frank, who turned out to be even more handsome (and surprisingly more flamboyant) in person than our online chats suggested… and there I was, nervous and silently cursing myself for letting Ava talk me into this. 208 “You look very familiar!” Frank suddenly sat up and flicked his wrist in Ava’s direction. “Haven’t I seen you on the telly? You’re a movie star, aren’t you?!” He banged the table with his fist. “I can’t believe I’m having dinner with a real starlet!” Ava gave a loud, evil queen laugh that frightened the table next to us before explaining, “Why YES, darling! I’ve been in many, many films – you’ve probably seen quite a few of them…” She rattled off five or ten titles – all of which were quite before Frank’s time. “Why, some of my dearest friends are Academy Award winners! Real pioneers of the Golden Age of Film,” she remarked. “That was all some time ago,” she added under her breath. “Well, you look just as ravishing now as you did then!” Frank beamed, looking like Prince William when he smiles. “Oh Frank, darling, you’re too sweet! Really.” She fanned herself as Mr. Charles watched with a flustered expression. “You must give me your autograph after dinner,” Frank pleaded. “Oh, Frankie…” She laughed. “Well, if you insist!” She smiled like a jackal and glanced around the restaurant to see who was listening. Frank turned to me and I just smiled, pleased that he’d remembered my advice word for word. There’s no faster way to befriend Ava Turnbull than to bloody “recognize” her. “Shall we order a bottle of champagne, my dear?” Mr. Charles thumbed through the menu to find the most expensive bottle. “That would be lovely, Charles!” Ava was all smiles as she let her fur stow slip off her shoulder a bit. “You look very smart,” Frank said, eyeing my suit. A real charmer, this one was.

209 I felt those familiar dragonflies in my stomach as I tried to think up a good response… “Thank you.” Well done, Jack. Brilliant. “You look nice too!” I added then for good measure. Heshotmeasexysmile,andIfelthislegtouchmine! Icould have died. Ava sent me a wink over the candelabra on our table before asking, “Champagne, boys?” “Good idea!” I nearly shouted, desperate for something to calm my nerves. Ava snapped her fingers and our server magically appeared. “I’m glad you invited me.” Frank leaned into my ear with a whisper. The feeling of his breath dancing along my neck was almost more than I could stand. “It’s past due that we met officially,” I managed. “Well I hope this isn’t the last I’ll see of you,” he joked. I laughed along and caught Ava eavesdropping from over her menu. “I umm… I hope this isn’t the last I see of you either!” I said bravely… and was rewarded with another sexy smile from Frank. By the time dinner came and we’d ordered a second bottle of wine, I was completely smitten. Our conversation revealed that we have loads in common and he was truly charming and interesting. Interesting in a way that I thought unlikely for someone I met online. I thought, at best, I might get a good shag out of it before he’d come to his senses and be on his way, but now… Maybe there was something more… Mr. Charles frightened us by abruptly standing and clinking 210 his glass with his dessert fork. Ava had a mouthful of pasta and a mortified look in her eyes as Mr. Charles shouted, “Excuse me everyone, I have an announcement!” “Oh God,” I muttered. Everyone in our section of the room stopped eating and directed their attention to Mr. Charles and Ava, who was frantically dabbing her mouth with a napkin. “Tonight…” Mr. Charles spoke in a grand voice, as if he were about to announce Oscar nominations. “I feel like the luckiest man alive!” Ava glanced at me with a look that said: Just kill me! Throw your steak knife into my heart and end this misery! “I am fortunate enough to be in the company of a woman… ” He stopped to take Ava’s hand. “A woman who truly makes me feel alive…” There were a few awwws from the audience. “A woman who is like the air that I breathe!” Mr. Charles choked up then and started to cry. I watched as Ava put on a gracious smile and slowly met Mr. Charles’ teary eyes. “A woman… that has taught me how to truly enjoy life… even when I thought mine was over…” He sat his hat on the table to reveal his balding, gray head. Mr. Charles went on and on and the awwws and admirable smiles from the audience grew louder and brighter as Mr. Charles let his heart bleed all over the table. Right into my Fettuccine Alfredo. “This is so romantic!” I heard Frank breathe. “Ava Turnbull?!” Mr. Charles was all worked up now as he dug into his pocket. “Oh God,” I sighed. “Will you marry me?!” 211 Ava looked at Mr. Charles… then to me… then gave a dazzling smile. “Yes, Charles.” She let her emotions pour. “I’ll marry you!” The restaurant erupted into a frenzied applause and I felt the knot of my tie tighten at my neck. I felt my temperature rise and grew fidgety and before I knew it, I had knocked my entire glass of champagne into Frank’s lap. He yelped as he jumped and hit the table, sending it toppling over to the floor. The entire room went silent at the sound of china crashing on the travertine tile – and in the midst of the madness, the tablecloth caught fire from our candle and bottle of wine spilling onto the floor. In that one moment, everything began to unravel.

***

Once we were home, I followed Ava into the grand foyer and watched as she removed her fur. “Well that was one marriage proposal I shall never forget,” she laughed. “Thanks for the fireworks, darling.” I stormed towards her as tears flooded my eyes. “I may have bossed things up tonight but what, Ava, what was that performance of yours?!” “What are you talking about, Jackie?” She looked befuddled. “What happened to not wanting to get married and ‘a woman’s independence is her only security’?!” I marveled. “Why did you even invite me?!” I shouted. “And why make me drag Frank into all this – you knew I’d only make a fool of myself, like I always do! Now he’ll probably have nothing to do with me…” She stared at me while I cried. My sobs echoed off the walls like ghosts announcing their presence. 212 “Ava, you didn’t even look at the ring!” I wiped at my eyes. “You knew you were going to marry him, so why drag me into this… Why?” I asked. She gave me a bittersweet smile before reaching out to softly touch my cheek. “I wanted you to see… that even an old fool like me is capable of being loved…” She fixed my unruly hair and pat me on the head, “And finding love.” She playfully squeezed my nose then before waltzing away, down the dimly lit hall. “Call Frank!” I heard her call out. “And tell him he has to be in the wedding. I won’t take no for an answer,” she chuckled. I laughed and shut my eyes, thinking… God, she is mad. And Frank? Perhaps he’s mad enough to forgive me… and feel the same way that I feel about him. Just perhaps.

213 About the Author

Christopher Murphy is an activist, artist, and the author of Where The Boys Are and The Other Side of the Mirror. Christopher is a graduate of Virginia Commonwealth Uni- versity and the Hurston/Wright Foundation. As a graphic designer/copywriter/marketer by day and author by night, Christopher can usually be found creating and designing behind the bright neon glow of his laptop. When he’s not writing, he enjoys traveling to new destinations. He is a shameless thrill-seeker, lover of roller coasters and all things that go fast. Christopher lives and works out of his home in Las Vegas with “the hubs” and their two dogs, and is currently writing his next novel.

You can connect with me on: https://www.christophermurphybooks.com https://twitter.com/CMurphyBooks https://www.facebook.com/ChristopherMurphyBooks

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215 Also by Christopher Murphy

Where The Boys Are Love-cursed journalist, Quinn Harris, has a terrible talent for being at the wrong place at the right time. When a chance reunion brings him face to face with a flame from his past the sparks quickly turn to ice as evidence of foul play arises. He soon learns that it’s no coincidence his high school crush disappeared years ago, without a trace. It’s also no coincidence that his victims look exactly like Quinn… The body count and the stakes are high as Quinn works to unravel the truth behind a string of unanswered murders that hit dangerously close to home. Murder, martinis, and mayhem rule in this stylish thriller from Christopher Murphy.

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