Summer was growing season: the warm weather coaxing even the most stubborn varietals into full, lush bloom. And just as the delphiniums and gardenias and dahlias began to open up and show their true colors, Henry watched Gorman come to life. Casting had begun for Tears of a Recalcitrant Snail.
“It’s so thrilling to hear my words read by actual actors.” Gorman buzzed around the kitchen, opening one drawer, then another. “The director is incredible. A New School grad—we were lucky to get her.”
“And everything’s going well with Gilbert?”
Gorman opened another drawer. “Yes.”
Was it Henry’s imagination or was Gorman blushing? “What are you looking for?”
“Wine opener.”
“There.” Henry pointed to the cutlery drawer. “Where it always is.”
“Rehearsals start soon.” Gorman began pulling the cork out. “I’ll need to be there every day.”
“But you’re just the playwright.”
“The playwright sits in on rehearsals for rewrites.” Gorman spoke in the authoritative-and-offended voice he used when he just learned something five seconds ago. “That’s industry standard.”
Henry served two generous bowls of chicken chow mein, garnished with green onions and sesame seeds. Gorman poured them both a glass. They sat across from each other at the dining table, draping linen napkins over their laps. Gorman switched on Dancing with the Stars, put it on mute, and asked Alexa to play Chopin.
“So I’ll be there from five every night. Oh, this is delicious, Choo-Choo. How’d you get the chicken so—”
“Wait a sec. From five p.m.? Every night?”
“Every weeknight.”
Henry stared at Gorman. “What about the shop?”
Gorman fussed with his napkin, not meeting Henry’s eye. “Yes, well, I was thinking we get that part-timer back in for a few weeks. She was good; you liked her.”
Henry’s chopsticks paused midway to his mouth. The shop was open till 9:00 p.m. over the summer. Twenty hours a week at twenty dollars an hour. “So not only are we spending ten grand on getting this thing up, now we have to spend four hundred dollars a week on a part-timer to cover you? Starting when?”
Gorman’s gaze darted from his bowl to his wineglass. “Rehearsals start, er, tomorrow.”
This was typical.
Their therapist, Jennifer, a gray-haired septuagenarian who wore cat-eye glasses and Bakelite necklaces, once said they could choose to lean into their similarities—shared interests, strengths, and values—or focus on their differences. Differences that included Gorman’s tendency to obfuscate conflict. Or how Henry handled holiday cards and birthday presents while Gorman just showed up. Or how Henry was close to his family, while Gorman tolerated his. Or how— Henry stopped the spiral. They were different. But they loved each other. And love was a choice.
“Fine,” Henry said. “I’ll look into it after dinner.”
Gorman looked surprised. Then relieved. Then suspicious. Then sheepish. “I can look into it. It’s my problem to solve.”
“That would be great,” said Henry. “Turn on the volume. I want to see this cha-cha.”
“Choo-Choo loves the cha-cha,” intoned Gorman and Henry giggled. It was true. He did.
Later, after Gorman had cleaned up and they’d made love (they usually had sex after Dancing with the Stars), Henry watched Gorman sleep. The soft rise and fall of his lover’s chest always soothed him.
When Henry was younger, he thought that loving someone was supposed to feel good, always. If it didn’t feel good, that wasn’t good love. But over the years, he’d learned that loving someone meant doing things he didn’t want to do. Go to a party he didn’t want to go to. Indulge a hobby he found tedious, a friend he found boring, a behavioral pattern he found annoying or strange. Pay for a part-timer to allow his significant other to pursue an expensive, time-consuming pipe dream that was quite possibly motivated by a crush on someone barely out of college.
Henry was up for it. Gorman was his best friend and he’d made many compromises to give Henry the life he wanted: the flower shop was primarily Henry’s dream. Gorman was good with numbers but he didn’t enjoy balancing the books like he enjoyed writing. Henry trusted that eventually, his partner would provide what he needed. But that hadn’t stopped Henry from shoving the stand mixer deep into the back of the pantry, unopened. The sight of it still made him upset.