Best Gay Romance 2013

Our story began—as so many love stories do—with a shoe.

“Do you have this in size ten?” he asked the salesclerk. Her name tag identified her as Courtnei. A tiny heart-shaped sticker dotted the terminal letter.

Courtnei took the running shoe, turning it around in her hands, and said, “Do you want to see it in light blue too?”

“Sure.” His smile was picture-perfect.

“Are you gonna buy those?” I asked.

He looked at me for the first time and my stomach lurched. He was beautiful in a way that made me look around to see if he was being filmed. A man this gorgeous could have stepped off a movie set, with his faded jeans and white Oxford shirt, perfectly manicured hands, Rolex, signet ring and expensively messy haircut. He had that fresh, sharply defined quality a man can only achieve through the consistent use of staggeringly overpriced skin-care products. Everything about him whispered: wealth. I looked into his pale-blue eyes, acutely aware of my tattered Levi’s, stained T-shirt and army surplus jacket. I pointed to the poster I’d been clutching in front of me.

“Yes,” he said.

I snorted in exasperation. Of course this child of privilege wouldn’t get it.

“This woman works in a Honduran sweatshop making the shoes you’re considering buying. She is paid less than twenty dollars a week despite the long hours and high productivity demands. She has no protection if she or one of her three children becomes ill. She is the sole support of her—”

“What’s her name?”

“What?”

“I asked her name,” he said. “Sometimes personalizing the message, say, something like, ‘This is Maria Cortez. She works in a sweatshop near La Ceiba—’”

“Are you making fun of people in poverty?”

“No. I’m making fun of you.” He smiled again, his lips parting in a frankly sensual manner.

“Okay, so I’ve got these in dark blue in ten and a half, and the light blue ones in ten.” Courtnei pushed past me with a pair of shoeboxes. “He can’t be here,” she said to him, and then turned to me. “You can’t be here.”

“He’s here with me,” the man said.

“But he can’t—”

“Thank you, Courtnei,” the man said. “May I have a few minutes to talk with my friend? Then I’ll try these on?”

“I’m not your friend,” I said.

He shrugged. Courtnei looked dubious but drifted away.

“So you’re here to keep people from buying these shoes?” he asked.

“Yes. The workers—”

“Wait.” He held up his hand, the palm pink and perfect. The gesture was strangely erotic. I shifted in place; he smiled again.

“You’re still laughing at me.”

“There is a difference between a smile and a laugh…and you need to tell me your name.”

“I need to what?”

“Tell me your name.”

I crossed me arms and considered my options.

“I’m Fletcher Alden,” he said. He held out his hand. I shook it, feeling small and disoriented.

“Ashe,” I said. “Ashe Stern.”

He smiled again, blue eyes probing me. Sweat trickled down my back.

“You know, Ashe, in a country in which nearly forty percent of the population is unemployed or underemployed and seventy percent live in poverty, the fact that this company provides over five hundred jobs, on-site medical care, and wages that are fifty percent more than the federally mandated minimum wage could be seen as a good thing.”

“Who’re you supposed to be? Jeffrey Sachs?”

“No. I’m just saying this may be more complicated than it seems.”

“That’s a bullshit excuse.”

“Most things are,” he said.

“Are what?”

“More complicated than they seem.”

“No,” I said. I was trying unsuccessfully to work up some emotion about the Honduran workers, but all I could see was dark hair that tufted from the collar of Fletcher’s bright white undershirt, the ample denim bulge between his legs and the heavily muscled runner’s thighs that stretched the legs of his jeans. “This is about…this is about a definition of social justice that transcends national borders.”

“As you say. You’re clearly the expert.”

I flushed.

“Do you believe that?” I asked.

“What? That you’re an expert?”

“No. The other part, about the workers being better off.”

He shook his head. “Not really. These shoes cost about seven dollars to produce, package and ship. They’re on sale for a hundred and fifty. Somebody’s making a bundle and I’m guessing it’s not Maria Cortez, and because Courtnei works for minimum wage plus commissions, I doubt it’s her either.”

I hadn’t really considered Courtnei’s wages.

“Do you think she has health insurance?”

“Courtnei? Probably can’t afford it.”

“I hate this,” I said.

“Then why are you here?”

“For Maria,” I said.

“Don’t you mean Courtnei?” he asked.

I sighed.

“Just yanking your chain,” he said. “Courtnei? I’m going to pass on these.”

“You’re not gonna buy them?”

“No.”

I blushed in confusion, unable to figure out if this was a victory. I dropped my eyes, studying my own fair-trade shoes, letting my brown hair fall down in front of my face, screening me from further scrutiny.

“So Ashe, after fighting the good fight all morning, you must be hungry.”

“Are you asking me to lunch?” I asked.

“I’m pretty sure I am.” Fletcher shifted his body into a cool, elegant pose. I watched the way he canted his hips and let his shoulders rise. It was a supremely natural movement, but it radiated sexiness and surety. I tried to create a quick mental note of it, wondering if I could recreate it onstage.

“Um?” I lost my train of thought somewhere between his hips and his shoulders.

“What would Maria Cortez say to the voice of the people having lunch with a prince of the merchant class?”

“You’re not funny,” I said, smiling slightly.

“I have my moments,” he said. “And I’m getting hungry.” His voice dropped into the gutter with that last word, but the inflection was so precise, so polished, that I wondered if I had heard correctly.

“So, lunch?” I said.

“Or something,” he said.

He was standing closer to me suddenly, his warm body radiating the smell of clean sweat and sandalwood, the bulge in his jeans slowly becoming larger and more distinct.

He saw me glancing down at him and licked his lips. Again the gesture was subtle, could easily have been something else, but I saw the look in his eyes and knew he was toying with me. I liked it.

We left the store and cut over to Eighth Avenue, ambling uptown to the door of a little Italian bistro. The staff greeted Fletcher by name, ushering us past a crush of waiting tourists to an intimate table near the piano. The owner brought over a bottle of expensive Chianti and chatted amiably with Fletcher, asking in her throaty, sexy Italian accent about his mother and his sister; asking who I was, where we’d met and if this was a date. She clucked and laughed and winked at me, her wine-red fingernails clicking against the bottle as she poured a tasting portion for Fletcher.

When she was gone, Fletcher raised his glass. “To happy beginnings,” he said. We clicked glasses and I sipped the smooth, dark wine.

Lunch was like a clever, funny romantic comedy montage scored by the tinkling ivory sounds of Arlen, Berlin and Gershwin. I’m sure we talked about all the boring things people find so fascinating when the chemistry is explosive, but I don’t really remember any of it. I know we didn’t talk about jobs or apartments, but Fletcher insists we traded family histories and coming out stories. I remember arguing over the check—I proposed we split it; he insisted on paying—and I remember watching him across the table throughout lunch and falling for him: for his pale, glowing skin and his perfect, lilting voice and his laugh, that perfect combination of deep, sexy rumble and high delighted peal. When we finally stood to leave, I didn’t want to part from him.

After lunch, we stepped out onto the sidewalk, trying to hang on to the warm cozy feeling of the restaurant despite the honking, shoving crush of rush hour. It was a Monday afternoon; I didn’t have to work that night, but I was still unsure of myself so I stood holding my backpack strap in one hand and laughing nervously.

“God, I’d like to have a go at those lips,” he said finally.

“So what’s stopping you?”

He grinned and blushed. He took a half step back and then, realizing what he’d done, stepped closer to me. We could almost pretend that the rush of people along the sidewalk was forcing us together. I could feel the heat of his body, smell his cologne. He laughed again and I leaned forward, planting a kiss on his beautiful, full lips, surprising us both. He leaned into the kiss, but softly, melting in my direction rather than taking a step. The kiss lasted an instant, but when I pulled back and opened my eyes I could see the heat in his.

“Oh, fuck it,” he said, grabbing my elbow and yanking me into the flow of pedestrian traffic. He glanced over his shoulder and pulled me down the next street, heading back toward Times Square.

“Where are we going?”

“Someplace private.” He looked over my shoulder again, pulled me across the street between a pair of tour buses, through a group of Asian tourists and into a Starbucks, then out the back door of the Starbucks and into the lobby of a hotel. We caught an elevator and he pressed the UP button, taking my hand in his and kissing my knuckles. The older straight couple with whom we shared the elevator seemed unfazed. I stepped closer to him, drawing his scent deep into my lungs. The elevator chimed and he pulled me through the door with him. I trailed along behind him through a conference center teeming with people in expesive suits.

“I take it you’ve been here before?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he said.

“Um, where are we going?”

He looked over his shoulder with that dazzling grin of his. “Play with me, baby,” he said. And he pulled me down a short corridor into a secluded restroom.

Three urinals faced three fully enclosed cubicles.

“Wait a minute.” I stopped in my tracks.

“What?”

“A bathroom?” I said. “Really?”

“It’s secluded.”

“It’s a bathroom.”

“It’s clean and the door goes all the way to the floor.”

I stood watching him. He didn’t grow impatient; he just stared at me hungrily and waited. I could see the bulge in his jeans shifting as blood rushed to his growing erection.

“C’mon,” he said. “You’re a rebel, Ashe.”

“I’m a rebel?”

“Voice of the people, scourge of corporate America.”

“You dragged me in here to make fun of me?” I laughed nervously.

“I dragged you in here to ravage you away from the prying eyes of the city.”

I reached out and slid my palm along the length of his erection, feeling the heat beneath the tight denim. My own cock leapt to attention.

“So, do you come here often?” I asked.

“Ugh. You’re killin’ me,” he said. “Get in here. C’mon, before somebody comes in. Come kiss me.”

He opened the door and tugged me into the cubicle.

“What are we going to tell our grandchildren?” I asked as he closed and locked the door behind us.

“We’ll tell them it started with a shoe.”

“There’s always a shoe,” I said, turning to face him.

“And a charming prince,” he said.

I blushed.

He lifted my backpack off my shoulder, hung it on the hook behind me and pulled me roughly against him. Our chests touched for the first time and I realized his body was hard and perfect beneath the flawless white cotton. I pushed closer, trying to make as much contact as possible and we kissed, not the soft, public kiss we’d shared on Eighth Avenue, but a full, insistent kiss that felt like an erotic eating contest.

His hands fumbled with my belt buckle and then my jeans and in an instant his long cool fingers were sliding along the length of my cock. He pushed my jeans down past my hips and held my cock in his hands, thumbing the slit to harvest a tiny pearl of precum. He raised his hand, looking intently at the viscous liquid and then smearing it across my lips. I shivered and he laughed that gentle, sexy laugh.

I pulled him close for another kiss, my cock sliding insistently against the front of his jeans. I unbuttoned his Oxford and pushed his T-shirt up, revealing planes of lightly furred muscles. We were kissing and rubbing our erections against each other, laughing, breathing heavy and making a lot of noise when there was a loud knock on the cubicle door.

We froze. His face went pale.

Another knock: five loud raps and then silence.

“Occupied,” I said.

Fletcher stifled a snort of laughter.

“No shit, kid. This is hotel security. Get the fuck outta here or I’m calling the police. You got thirty seconds to beat it.” I held my breath and listened to his footsteps as he walked across the tile floor and stepped through the door onto the carpet beyond.

“Shit!” My heart was trying to pound its way through my rib cage. My whole body jumped to life, the adrenaline spike so intense I felt like the Six Million Dollar Man. I was ready to outrun anyone.

“What are you doing?” Fletcher asked.

“What?”

“You’re making that sound,” he said, “and moving in slow motion or whatever?”

“Bionics,” I said. “Duh-nuh-nuh-nuh-nuh.”

He rolled his eyes. “Well, come on, Steve Austin, let’s get out of here.”

When we pushed through the restroom door there was nobody in sight, but when we fast-walked through the hotel lobby, a trio of guys in burgundy jackets and matching Blue-tooths appeared out of nowhere and started following us. Fletcher grabbed my hand, pulling me out onto the street and hailing a cab. He shoved me inside and dove in after me. We were halfway down the block and the three security guards were still standing in the street watching us.

“Where do you live?” he asked.

I hesitated. I lived in a tiny one-bedroom apartment with a roommate. I looked down at his perfect hands jutting from perfectly ironed, spotless white cuffs, and I froze, embarrassed and undecided about what to do next.

“What’s the matter?” he asked. He touched my cheek. “It’s okay.”

I shook my head, changing the subject. “That was intense.”

“Yeah, I guess so. Sorry. I never thought…” His voice trailed off.

He slid close to me and kissed me gently on the lips, his fingers gliding along my thigh and gently kneading the life back into my cock.

I gave the driver the cross streets.

My roommate, Bayani, was gone when we got to the apartment, so I dragged Fletcher into the tiny bedroom and locked the door behind us. He looked around, reading the titles of the books lined up on the shelves, scanning the posters and flyers that cluttered the walls on my half of the room.

“Street theater, political causes, boycotts, ‘Fight Corporate Domination,’ and this…” He pointed to a poster for the Disney production of Cinderella at the New Amsterdam.

“It’s Rogers and Hammerstein,” I said.

“Big Broadway is big business,” he said.

“I should boycott art because it’s corporately produced?”

He pointed to a bumper sticker tacked up over my desk. “You’re boycotting NBC because it’s owned by a defense contractor.”

“Disney isn’t a defense contractor.”

There was an awkward moment of silence. He looked at me and winked. “It’s okay. I’m just learning about you,” he said. “And playing with you a little.”

“Come play over here,” I whispered.

“I’m almost done here,” he said.

I dropped my backpack on the floor, kicked off my shoes and sat on my bed watching him.

“I love that you’re so passionate about what you believe,” he said. “These political causes and the incident in the shoe store; I like that a lot.”

“Thanks?”

He turned around to face me. “I’ve never really been very politically active. I leave that to my father, or the family attorneys, you know; I never get too involved in anything.”

“Not in anything at all?”

He smiled again. “Well, some things warrant involvement.”

“So come get involved,” I said. “Now!”

He chuckled, kicked off his shoes and stood at the edge of the bed looking at me.

“Sorry about the hotel thing,” he said. “That was stupid.”

“Nah. It’s okay, I—”

“C’mere.” He didn’t wait for me to respond, he just pulled me over to the edge of the bed and started yanking my shirt up over my head. He stripped me out of my clothes and then slowly, his eyes never leaving mine, took off his own clothes. He was gym-toned and perfect, his chest and legs covered in dark, closely manicured fur. His body tapered from broad, muscular shoulders to ribs and rippling abs in a perfect V-shape.

I pulled him on top of me and we rolled around for a while, kissing and exploring each other. His cock was long and straight with an intimidatingly large head that left streaks of shimmery precum on my legs, my stomach and my cheeks. The heady saltiness of his skin made me want to take a bite out of him.

He rolled on top of me, spreading my arms above my head and pinning me to the mattress. “Don’t move,” he whispered, sliding his tongue inside my ear and sending a shiver down the length of my body. A dimpled landscape of goose bumps appeared across my arms and legs.

He kissed and licked his way down the side of my face and neck, and then wandered toward my left armpit. When his tongue touched the delicate skin under my arm, my body jerked involuntarily.

“Jerking away will send me away for a while, but I always come back for what I want,” he said.

“I’ll remember that,” I said, gasping as his teeth clamped down on my nipple.

“Please do,” he murmured.

He traced the contours of my body like an intimate cartographer while I shifted and quaked beneath his lips.

When I could stand it no longer, I told him to get condoms and lube out of the desk drawer. He pulled the pale-green condom down over my cock, lubed us both up and straddled me. I watched his face crinkle and relax as he worked my cock inside him; sweat beaded on his forehead. He let out a long, breathy sigh as he finally settled onto me, sliding down to the root and reaching forward to kiss me again. He took charge from the top, moving until he found a rhythm that suited him and then looking down into my eyes and coaxing me forward with him. His six-pack abs rippled beneath the taut skin; his breath was heavy, rising sometimes into moans that shook his body and tightened all of his internal muscles. I was sweating beneath him, coaxed into a delirium of sensation, and just when I thought I might pass out from the strain, I felt hot blasts of cum splashing onto my chest, neck and face. I tilted my head, letting the cum fall onto my lips and tongue. The taste of him sent me over the edge. I leaned forward, pulling him against me and pumping everything I had into his body. I groaned and felt tears mingling with the sweat on my cheeks.

Later, when I opened my eyes, he was still lying on top of me, his face inches from my own. I lifted myself on one elbow, shifting our bodies and looking down at him. His eyes opened, slowly gaining focus. There was a moment of stillness and then he kissed me so passionately I collapsed back on the bed, his body still glued to mine. My cock slid out of him. He reached down to drop the condom on the floor beside the bed without breaking the kiss.

We kissed for a long time, through the heat and exhaustion, his body melding itself to mine. I reached to pull a blanket over the two of us as his lips fluttered against my neck. I didn’t ask him at the time, but later Fletcher told me he kept saying, “This is the one, this is the one” over and over until he drifted off to sleep.

We were awakened by Bayani banging on the bedroom door.

“Occupied,” Fletcher said.

I laughed and then covered my mouth with my fingers.

“What the fuck? Ashe, let me in.”

We scrambled into our clothes; Fletcher disposed of the condom and I opened the door.

“Oh, Jesus, Ashe, it smells like a sex club in here.” Bayani stormed into the room wearing lace-up Daisy Dukes, knee-high Doc Martens and glitter. He pushed past me without seeming to notice Fletcher. He dropped to his knees and started pulling wads of clothing from under his bed.

“This is Fletcher.”

“Hey, Fletch.” He didn’t turn around. “What are you still doing here? We’ve got, like ten minutes to get to the theater.”

I glanced at Fletcher.

“Dude, today’s Monday,” I said.

“Seriously?” Bayani looked genuinely startled.

“You’re in a play?” Fletcher asked.

Bayani laughed. “Are you kidding me? He’s—”

I hit him in the face with a pillow.

“What? Is it some kind of embarrassing guerrilla theater? Anticorporate flash mobs or something? Hassling the shoppers in the Disney Store?”

I’m sure Fletcher was being sincere, but this sent Bayani to the floor, laughing and rolling back and forth, then beating his heels on the floor, tears seeping from the corners of his eyes. He was only a moderately talented actor, so I was pretty sure the tears were real.

“What?” Fletcher said again.

“Disney!” Bayani hooted and collapsed again, laughing and on the verge of hysteria.

“What?” Fletcher turned to me.

I didn’t say anything, but Bayani rolled onto his back, panting. “He’s fucking Prince Charming,” he said. “You know? In Cinderella? At the New Amsterdam,” Bayani said, hooting with laughter. “It’s a Disney show. Flash mobs! Fuckin’ guerrilla theater.”

Fletcher’s eyes widened perceptibly but he didn’t say anything.

Bayani was staggering to his knees, saying something about Tarzan being the only Disney show he’d ever heard of with gorillas.

“Come on, man. It’s not that funny,” I said.

This resulted in another round of panting and giggling.

“Can you give us a minute, B?”

Bayani pulled on a purple rain slicker and stalked into the other room.

“Disney isn’t a defense contractor,” Fletcher said, his tone gentle but mocking.

I couldn’t read his face, but it didn’t really matter; I was so embarrassed I wanted to die.

“You protest people buying those shoes when you work across the street in a show that charges five hundred dollars for front-row tickets?”

“It’s not the same thing,” I said.

“Isn’t it?” I still couldn’t read his face. There was something there that wasn’t there before, something that looked dark, maybe angry. “Disney is not a defense contractor, but they own ABC and they use the media to shape American public policy; they fight American unions tooth and nail; they rely on underpaid foreign labor for their production base…. I could go on.”

“Please don’t.”

We stared at each other for a moment in silence.

“I thought this meant something to you,” he said, pointing to the protest posters on the wall.

I heard my father’s voice in his words. Old wounds reopened and tears welled in my eyes.

“Maybe this was a bad idea,” I said.

“What?” He seemed genuinely surprised.

“Maybe I’m not what you think I am.”

“Don’t say that. It doesn’t—”

“I think you should go,” I said.

“Ashe, no—”

“Just go, Fletcher.”

“You’re a fucking idiot,” Bayani said, when Fletcher was gone.

“Can you just shut the fuck up? Quit your giggling and laughing and stay the fuck out of my life just this once?” I screamed, grabbing my jacket and storming out the door. I took the service elevator and went out through the back alley, heading uptown toward the park.

I was so full of angry energy that I broke into a run, sprinting as far as Columbus Circle, letting sweat and heat loosen my joints and clear my head. I crossed into the park and plotted a rambling course toward the Bethesda Fountain.

Embarrassment was thick inside me, viscous and hot and acidic.

An actor? A lousy fuckin’ actor? Jesus, Ashe, I thought your political beliefs meant something to you. My father’s disapproval echoed in Fletcher’s words; they both thought I was a complete sellout. And wasn’t I?

I stormed through the darkening park, sometimes walking, sometimes running, always trying to keep a few paces ahead of the choking shame. I was running when I passed the reservoir and staggering by the time I reached Central Park North. I collapsed on a bench, breathless and exhausted, a wreck of wounded pride. I hated myself so much I considered throwing myself in front of the Number Three bus. I imagined the scrape of asphalt on my face and the crunching progress of the tires across my back and legs. It took me an hour to calm down, but as my anger and embarrassment ebbed, a rising tide of despair washed over me.

What the fuck had I done? Had I just sent a gorgeous, funny, smart, rich man packing because of my wounded pride?

I called Bayani on my cell.

“I don’t know what to do,” I said.

“Have you considered throwing yourself in the river?”

“I was thinking of a launching myself under the tires of a crosstown bus.”

“Right. And then I’ll be stuck pushing your crippled ass around in a wheelchair—But ya are, Blanche! Ya are in that chair!” He broke into peals of laughter.

“Not funny,” I said.

“You know I’m funny, bitch,” he said.

“I’m sorry about before,” I said.

He sighed loudly, and then said: “You white boys are so dramatic. Just call him.”

I smiled.

Until I realized I had absolutely no way of contacting Fletcher.

My grandmother used to say, “Pride goeth before a fall.”

I always hated the crazy old bat.

I went back to work the next day, stumbling through the week in a half-dazed stupor that would have gotten me fired if it weren’t for the persistent and skillful intervention of the company’s Equity steward, Bambi. But even she was getting tired of my lackluster performances by the end of the week. She pulled me aside before the Sunday evening show and whispered in my ear: “You quit fucking up or I’m letting you tank. You got your week; now get your shit together.”

I caked on makeup to cover the bags under my eyes and tried not to cry during the love songs. The Sunday evening performance was a significant improvement. Bambi stopped me in the hall after curtain, grabbed my arms and said, “Better. Now go home, sleep until Tuesday afternoon, and come back in here reborn. You got it, Ashe?” I nodded and slinked away.

Bayani was waiting for me in the hallway in his street clothes.

“There’s a package back there for you.” He jerked his head in the direction of my dressing room.

“My walking papers?” I asked.

“I’m thinking, no,” he said.

There was a rectangular package wrapped in royal purple with an extravagant blue ribbon. There was a card tucked under the bow. I pulled out the envelope with trembling fingers and read the note.

Best show all week. If the shoe doesn’t fit, the shop’s open ’til midnight—Fletcher.

I pulled the top off the box, revealing a pair of the blue running shoes Fletcher had not bought at the shoe store on the day we met.

I arrived at the store at ten minutes to midnight. The place was packed with tourists scooping up last-minute deals to take home to Scranton or Cleveland or Baltimore.

I had the box tucked under one arm and I was looking for Fletcher. Courtnei approached me and said, “Can I help you?”

“Yes, I’d like to return these,” I said.

“Oh, it’s you. Where’s your protest sign?”

“I retired the sign.”

“Change of heart?”

“You could say that.”

“Did you steal these?”

“No.”

“Do you have the receipt?”

“I’ve got it,” a voice said from behind me.

I turned around. Fletcher was wearing jeans and a tight white T-shirt. In the very center of his chest, nestled in the gentle slope between his pecs, was a cartoon frog wearing a jeweled crown.

I handed the box to Courtnei without looking at her. Fletcher handed her the receipt, took me in his arms and kissed me.

We came up for air when Courtnei nudged Fletcher with a clipboard. He scrawled his signature on the return slip and handed her his American Express Black card.

“Should I expect drama every time I uncover an inconsistency in your character?” he asked.

“Probably,” I said. “Does that scare you?”

“I guess not. How many can there possibly be?”

“There are a lot of them, I’m afraid.”

“So it could take years to work through them all.”

“Decades, maybe.”

“It sounds exhausting.”

“Oh, I’ll definitely exhaust you.”

“I don’t doubt that for a minute.” He said. “And the drama?”

“I am an actor,” I said. “A master thespian, you might say.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that. Not this week anyway,” he said, laughing.

I dug my knuckles into his rib cage.

“You came to the show?”

“I have a life,” he said.

“Got any pointers for me?” I asked.

“Yeah, try reining it in a little when you do that thing you do with your left hand. You know, the thing with the flick and the bow and the kiss.” He demonstrated, exaggerating my flourish, making it look outrageously effeminate. “I mean, you’re kissing Cinderella, not Lady Gaga.”

“I worked hard on that move,” I said, but I was laughing.

“Right.”

“You didn’t like it?”

“Kinda gay.”

“Ya think?” I slid my hand across his chest, tweaking his right nipple through the tight cotton.

“Oh, yeah,” he said. “Way gay.”

“Any other notes?” I asked.

“Don’t run away from me.” He put his hands on my arms, suddenly serious.

“Never again.”

“Never again,” he said. “Because I’ll just follow you.”

“There’s no escaping a happy ending,” I said.

The overhead lights flashed and the manager made an announcement that the store would be closing in three minutes.

Fletcher wrapped his arm around my waist and pulled me close, kissing me hard on the mouth, recreating in exact detail the final kiss from the show.

“And curtain,” he whispered, his lips warm against my cheek.