I SAT WITH RICHARD in the back of a cab, sweating. Eighth Avenue was a parking lot and we were late to the opening of his play. Our tardiness was not my fault—an accident ahead had created the gridlock—but that didn’t stop Richard from issuing a passive-aggressive sigh, as though I’d engineered the collision to spite him.
“It’s the opening of your play,” I said. “They can’t start without you.”
Richard shot me a scathing look before returning his gaze to the traffic outside.
“I met Charles, by the way,” I continued with labored enthusiasm. “He visited me at my restaurant.” I thought this might be a natural segue to the matter of the Hamptons trip. Richard still had not extended an invitation to me, and I hoped that if I hinted enough, he would realize his error of omission. Oh my God—of course you’re invited, Richard gushed in my fantasies. It’s crazy—you’ve become such an integral part of my life, I simply assumed you were coming. How stupid of me to forget to actually ask you.
“I know—he told me.” Richard grunted. My hopes were crushed by his scowl.
“Oh . . . you didn’t mention that he told you.”
“Well, I’m mentioning it now,” Richard snarled and then went quiet, restoring the cab to a stuffy silence. The windows fogged against the cool night air. I scoured my brain for new topics, anything to lift the weight of Richard’s agitation.
“I e-mailed you some of my work, you know.” After our fight outside the MoMA, I’d decided to share a draft of my play with Richard. It seemed a necessary concession if we were to continue our relationship. Despite his assurances otherwise, I feared that he still nursed some resentment from the episode.
“I haven’t had a chance to read it yet.”
“Oh, I mean, obviously you’ve been busy. I wasn’t—”
“Can we ride in silence for one second?” Richard snapped.
“Of course. I’m sorry. I didn’t—”
“What the fuck is going on out there?” Richard yelled to the driver, pounding on the partition for emphasis.
“Nothing I can do, buddy,” the cabbie said, shrugging.
Richard reeled back in anger. Suddenly, he slammed his fist against his door. I jumped.
“What the fuck, man?” the cabbie yelled.
“That’s it. I’m walking. It’s only seven blocks.” Richard yanked open his door.
“Wait—” I pleaded, unwilling to surrender our ride just yet.
“I said, I’m walking. I don’t know what you’re doing. But I’m going to walk the seven blocks to get to the Broadway opening of my play on fucking time,” he yelled and took off. I fumbled with my wallet, shoved a couple of twenties at the cabbie.
By the time I emerged onto the street, Richard was half a block ahead. I ran to catch up, hoping he would glance back to confirm that I was following. Maybe he’d even stop, soften his expression, and wait for me. Maybe he’d hold out his hand, let the foot traffic swarm around him, and stand sentinel until my palm was firmly in his grip.
Much to my dismay, he did no such thing. Richard’s gaze remained fixed on the sidewalk in front of him, his shoulders hunched and stiff, his gait steady. I chased him up Eighth Avenue, dodging dumbstruck tourists, fighting back tears, desperate for any acknowledgment from the hurrying figure ahead.
At that moment, it hit me: I loved Richard Shriver. Maybe that’s why it hurt so much when, minutes later, after I finally caught up, he slapped me across the face.
Richard’s play was entitled Flesh and Blood, and the story goes like this: Royce and Amelia Laughton are cofounders of a successful Wall Street firm, an invincible empire that keeps them flush with enough cash to buy second, third, and fourth homes. The aging couple has only one child, a gay son named Stephen, whom they’d placed in a top executive role at their firm once he was of age and possessed the requisite business degrees. The blissful ecosystem of their family is destroyed when Stephen discovers that his parents have been using the firm to operate a massive Ponzi scheme. Soon, the FBI makes similar discoveries, and the couple is arrested. Key to his parents’ defense is the testimony of their son, but during prep for the trial, a dark family secret comes to the surface: Since he was fourteen years old, Stephen has been engaged in an ongoing incestuous relationship with his mother. It is this admission, not the federal investigation, that finally shatters the family. Still, despite the horrific revelations preceding the trial, Stephen promises to testify in defense of his parents, displaying a twisted sense of familial loyalty. But when he gets on the stand, Stephen makes a spontaneous decision to sabotage the trial, testify against his parents, and ensure that they spend their lives in prison. The final scene of the play features Stephen visiting his mother in jail, unable to surrender his sick love for the woman who both gave him life and destroyed it. As the stage lights dim, the weeping son kisses the partition separating him from his mother and whispers: “I love you.”
The play was brilliant and devastating. Early in the evening, an astonished silence fell over the audience as we surrendered to the eerie pull of Richard’s dark vision. The singular holdout was Richard’s own mother, who sat one row in front of me, an unimpressed frown fixed to her taut, surgery-sculpted face. She wore a tasteful strand of pearls and an impeccable Chanel suit and sported a severe, white-blond bob that bore a striking resemblance to the wig of the actress playing the mother. It could have been a coincidence of costuming, although, given Richard’s previous admission that Flesh and Blood was all about his “mommy issues,” I wondered if the hairstyle was a blatant Fuck you to his own mother. During the curtain call, the audience stirred from its shocked stupor and rose for a thunderous standing ovation—everyone but Richard’s mother, who remained planted in her seat issuing little more than a limp golf clap, as though her son had fumbled through a workmanlike game on the putting green instead of creating a transcendent work of drama.
The applause lasted for nearly five minutes, the assembled theatergoers unwilling to break the spell of the production and return to the reality of the evening. I, for one, was all too eager to remain in the safety of a darkened theater, dreading the Social Olympics of the impending opening-night party and the inevitable stares that would greet me when it was discovered that I was Richard’s significantly younger, poorer, not-famous boyfriend.
I glanced at the empty aisle seat to my left. Richard had abandoned it early in the first act, preferring instead to pace at the back of the theater—his nervous, opening-night tradition. Our earlier fight remained unresolved; after slapping me on the street corner, Richard had paused for only a moment, eyes widening suddenly as if he were waking from a dream, then plowed ahead wordlessly, resuming his rush to the theater as if nothing had happened. I hung back, reeling from the slap, already racking my brain for ways to forgive the man I loved: He’s a genius, he’s under pressure, the monumental stress of this evening caused him to resort to uncharacteristic expressions of anxiety. Besides, it barely hurt. When we reached the theater, it was time for the play to begin. I issued a hurried apology as we ran down the aisle to find our seats. What I’d done to be sorry for was still unclear to me, but I was so desperate to resolve the tension between us that I accepted total responsibility for Richard’s foul mood and his act of violence. He gave me a vague “Don’t worry about it” as the lights dimmed and then disappeared a few minutes later to take his place at the back of the auditorium.
Now, as I waded through the crowds in the aisle, I tried to locate Richard. I saw him trapped in conversation with his mother, his mouth pursed tight. Richard shot me a warning look; I had been cautioned about his mother and forbidden to speak to her. “My mother has never been particularly enthused about my romantic life,” Richard had told me earlier, “and you do not want to be on the receiving end of her disdain.”
I remained at a safe distance as she gave Richard a distracted hug, smoothed her Chanel, and trotted into the night. Once her bouncing white bob had disappeared, I approached Richard.
“That was brilliant,” I gushed. “Truly moving. Everyone loved it.”
“That’s nice, but the only review I really care about is the Times,” Richard intoned with a forced irony that did little to mask his anxiety about the impending critical reaction. “Hopefully they’ll be kinder than my mother.”
“She didn’t like it?”
“I don’t understand why you insist on writing such nasty things,” he cried in a grotesque falsetto imitation of his mother. “You’ve lived a blessed life. Why don’t you write about that?”
“She was probably just angry that it was about her.”
Shock contorted Richard’s face. “Excuse me?”
“I mean—that’s . . . that’s what you said, right? On our first date?” I backpedaled in a frantic attempt to jog Richard’s memory.
“I don’t recall that discussion.”
“You said that this play was really about your . . .” I trailed off. A red fury flushed Richard’s face, one that seemed to betray a deeper anguish.
Did Richard’s mother actually molest him? I wondered.
“Let’s go to the party,” he snapped, then pressed forward, once again leaving me to follow in his wake.
“There’s my agent,” Richard said, scanning the crowd at Cipriani minutes after we arrived. “You’ll be okay if I jet off for a second to say hi,” he continued, more statement than question.
“Of course.” I was eager to appear confident, but terror stiffened my spine as I watched Richard vanish into the crush of bodies. I loitered by the bar, desperate to delay my inevitable awkward immersion in a roomful of strangers. As the bartender handed me my first martini of the evening, a scream sliced through the thrum of small talk. I whirled around, surprised to discover the shriek was directed at me.
“Ahhh! It’s so good to see you again,” gushed a woman I’d never met. She was a stunning blonde in her early forties with filler-plumped cheeks. Her rail-thin frame was squeezed into a red floor-length gown that she hiked up absently while skittering toward me. I stood dumbfounded as she swept me into a warm, aggressive hug that literally left me breathless. Our bodies pressed together, and the sequins on her gown pushed through the fabric of my shirt, stinging like nettles.
“It’s been too long. I haven’t seen you and Richard, in, what—like a year?” The timbre of her voice sounded oddly familiar. At that moment, I realized that she was none other than Kristen Sloan, the Academy Award–winning actress who’d starred in a feature-film adaptation of one of Richard’s early works. “It was the St. Bart’s trip for Richard’s birthday, right?”
She clearly thought I was someone else, but I was reluctant to correct her mistake, partly because I was intimidated by her presence and partly because she was the most famous person in the room. If we formed an alliance, her power would be conferred on me by proxy. I could cease being seen as Richard’s arm candy and become, instead, a mysterious friend to the famous actress.
“How are you?” I replied, avoiding her question.
“Absolutely devastated,” she said dramatically, gripping my hand and tossing back her head. “Wasn’t the play just gutting? I cried all the way to the party. You’ve got quite the talented boyfriend.”
And there it was. She thought I was someone else, but she also knew I was Richard’s boyfriend. Perhaps she’d mistaken me for the boy from the photo of “Richard Shriver and guest” that I’d studied for so long. My jealous thoughts drifted to Richard’s previous conquests. I hoped that I was the final stop on his promiscuous journey through the land of twinks.
“I know, I’m so lucky,” I murmured.
Despite the mistake she’d made, I quite liked Kristen (or “Krissie,” as she insisted I call her, a privilege she bestowed on those in her inner circle. If you really knew her, you’d never call her Kristen). She stayed by my side for a generous amount of time and became my party life raft. The warmth of her attention felt good, even if it was intended for someone else.
“By the way, I’m so excited to head out to the Hamptons tomorrow,” she said. My stomach dropped at the mention of the trip. “I’ll see you there?”
“Yes,” I blurted out, then instantly regretted the lie.
“Perfect. Well, I’ll stop monopolizing you. We’ll have plenty of time to catch up this week!” She administered a brisk hug before screaming in the direction of another acquaintance and diving into the sea of bodies.
I stayed behind, reeling from the encounter. Why had I lied about the Hamptons? I’d truly fucked myself now. I would have to either bring it up with Richard this evening in a Hail Mary attempt to get an invite or wait for my lie to expose itself on the trip when Charles or Krissie inquired about my absence and discovered that I was never meant to be there. Asking Richard about the trip seemed the best course, but I couldn’t muster the courage to confront him. I feared the omission was intentional, and acknowledging this reality would force me to accept its implication: that Richard and I were over.
I spent the rest of the evening avoiding him. I floated through the party, largely unnoticed, like a horror-film ghost that only the cursed few can see. Friends of Richard’s who did recognize me either ignored my presence or offered a tired greeting before moving on. Fran Lebowitz mistook me for a waiter. I eventually took refuge in my cracked iPhone screen, pretending to text friends I didn’t have.
Toward the end of the night, an urgent murmur rippled through the crowd. The review, the only one that mattered, was in. Phones lit up like fireflies at dusk, dotting the room with their glow. Guests huddled around their screens, eager to read the verdict in the Times. I located Richard in the crowd; he stood in a concerned conference with Charles, their eyes locked on the same iPhone. I watched their smiles grow in tandem and knew without reading a word that it was a rave. Photographers circled as Richard hooked Charles in a playful headlock and landed a fat kiss on his cheek.
I caught Charles’s eye through the blaze of flashbulbs. He waved me over to the chaotic corner he occupied with Richard. As I approached, Charles whispered something in his ear, eliciting a laugh from my giddy boyfriend.
“We’re a hit,” Richard said with drunken warmth as he pulled me into his arms.
“Congratulations,” I said and kissed him, tasting the sting of bourbon on his breath.
“I’m sorry. I’ve been a total asshole-nightmare person tonight.”
“Oh, it’s fine.” I relaxed in Richard’s embrace. The slap suddenly felt like a distant memory, something we’d laugh about, a funny little footnote in our love story.
“No, it’s not. I’ve been a monster. I’m always a wreck at openings.”
“It’s true. Trust me, I know,” Charles chimed in, laughing. “But now you’re the lucky one who gets to deal with it.”
“By the way, are you all packed for tomorrow?” Richard asked.
“Tomorrow . . .”
“For the Hamptons? Please tell me you haven’t forgotten.”
I felt dizzy with relief. I didn’t care if Richard truly believed that he’d invited me or if he knew he hadn’t and this was simply a tactic to save face. Regardless, my anxiety evaporated like a nightmare banished by the morning, dream logic rendered absurd in the daylight.
“Oh, the Hamptons! Of course I haven’t forgotten,” I said, swooning deeper into Richard’s arms.
“So you’re still coming?”
“Absolutely.”