A Month Later, Nirvana

Lloyd

“It’s really okay,” Eva’s insisting.

“Are you sure?”

“Ooh. It hurts! Rub it again, okay?”

I oblige, using my thumb and forefinger to gently massage Eva’s ankle. She fell, trying to retrieve a vase from a shelf, just as all our guests were arriving. She shrieked in pain, and I feared she’d broken her ankle. And at our grand opening party, too. I asked the guests to wait just a moment and helped Eva into the kitchen.

“Here,” I say, pressing the ice pack around her ankle again. “This will ease the swelling.” She’s looking down at me with such appreciation. She blinks back tears.

“Does it hurt that much?” I ask. “Maybe I should take you over to the clinic.”

“No, no. I’ll be okay.” She smiles. “Thank you, Lloyd. It’s been an awfully long time since anyone has taken care of me like this. Thank you.”

“You sure it’s okay?” I feel her ankle again, reassuring myself it isn’t broken. “Just to be safe, I don’t want you walking on it for a while. We’ll sit you down on the couch and you can greet guests from there.”

She touches my face. “Thank you for caring so much.”

I blush. “I need to get back out there.” She nods. “You just sit here for a few minutes more with that ice pack.”

“Yes, Doctor.”

We exchange smiles. I dust off my pants and head back into the parlor, where the guests are doing their best to make small talk, but not everyone knows each other. I resume the introductions. It’s a mix of lives and lifestyles: the old friends from the Javitz days; Provincetown locals; and Jeff’s party crowd. It seems everyone has come: Ty, Henry, Shane, Brent, Ernie, Melissa, Rose, Chanel, Wendy, Naomi—even my old flame Drake, looking particularly natty in a black turtleneck and leather pants. He keeps catching my eye as he moves through the rooms, popping cheese and crackers into his mouth, carrying his glass of white wine.

“It’s just beautiful,” says my old friend Melissa, her two-year-old daughter Rachel in her arms. The girl’s head is down on her mother’s shoulders, her arms and legs wrapped around her like a koala bear.

“I’m so glad you could come,” I tell her.

“We wouldn’t have missed it. I just know Javitz is beaming somewhere. To own a guest house in Provincetown! Who doesn’t dream of that!”

I smile. Yes, it does seem like a dream. Last night our very first guests arrived. A gay man, alone, and a straight couple. All three are here at the reception, too, offering firsthand testimony to our hospitality. They’ve been treated to breakfast in bed and a four-course dinner. We can’t guarantee such service all the time, but hey, they’re our first guests. The gay man—his name is Ira—is across the room regaling the crowd with tales of sumptuous salmon almondine and a long lazy afternoon in the Jacuzzi. “It’s like being at a spa,” I hear him gushing.

I’m glad they’re pleased. Word of mouth is the best advertising. Still, I can’t deny how tired I feel. In the past four days I’ve maybe had nine hours of sleep, total. Eva, as usual, has had even less, staying up until three in the morning washing windows and ironing cloth napkins, polishing brass, and setting up VCRs. I marvel at her energy. Things have rebounded between us. She wants this to work as much as I do. Maybe even more.

I’m relieved, of course, since after that episode on the highway, I had started to think maybe Eva really was as unstable as Jeff had charged. I’d insisted that she start seeing a therapist. “Therapy is a good thing, Eva, nothing to be ashamed of,” I told her. “You need someone to process your grief with. Losing Steven isn’t something that you can process all by yourself, or with me.”

She agreed, and immediately I felt better. I gave her a list of names of local therapists that I admired, and she promised to choose from among them. She hesitated when she saw all of the names were women—“I’ve never been as comfortable with women as I have with men,” she said—but I urged her to work through her feelings. It could make for very good therapy, I argued.

Who she ultimately chose I still don’t know: I haven’t wanted to badger her or appear to be supervising her. We’re partners, friends, equals. But whoever she’s seeing seems to be doing a good job. For the past few weeks Eva’s been like her old self: confident, wise, strong.

“They seem to be enjoying themselves,” she says, coming up behind me.

“Hey,” I reply, turning around. I wasn’t even aware of her approach. “I don’t want you walking on that.”

She slips an arm around my waist. “I’ll be fine,” she says. “Your tender loving care did the trick. It’s all I needed. Besides, I can’t miss out on this. This is it, Lloyd. Our dream come true.”

I smile, dropping my arm around her shoulders. “And to you goes most of the credit.”

Even this afternoon’s gala was largely orchestrated by her. Catered by a couple of top-notch local chefs, the spread is both delectable and elegant: caviar, gingered scallops, flame-roasted pears, chocolate-covered strawberries. Candles flicker everywhere. The wine flows freely.

Drake catches my eye again from across the room. I smile, and he raises his glass.

“What a handsome man,” Eva says, observing. “Who is he?”

“His name is Drake. He’s—an old friend.”

“Very handsome. Classic, even.”

“Mmm.” I watch him. He’s now talking with Henry and Shane and Brent. Yes, Drake is indeed classically handsome. Tall, square-jawed, silver-haired. The penultimate New England Wasp. When I first moved apart from Jeff, I saw a lot of Drake, who’d been very persistent in trying to win me over—determined, in fact, to get me to move in with him. But as much as I liked him, as much as I found him very attractive, something always held me back.

Something named Jeff.

I scan the crowd again. Still no sign of him. We haven’t spoken much since Valentine’s Day, but my anger toward him has subsided and I find myself, yet again, hoping against hope. Henry told me he presumed Jeff was coming, but admitted he hadn’t talked to him in a few days. I’d sent Jeff an E-mail reminding him of the opening and asking him to come, but I never got a response. There’s absolutely no excuse if he doesn’t show. The weather’s fine for either driving or flying—an early taste of spring, in fact: warm and sunny, with the sun spilling in from the windows, including the new one that completely opens up the kitchen. We couldn’t have asked for a better kickoff for our venture.

Suddenly hands are covering my eyes. “Guess who?”

“Uhhh …”

The hands disappear. A face moves into view. It’s Ty.

“How soon they forget,” the attorney says, smirking. “Hey, you’ve got a packed house. Congratulations!”

“Thanks,” I say, feeling ridiculously uncomfortable all at once, with Ty grinning at me, Eva at my side, Drake watching me from across the room, and Jeff expected any minute.

Ty reaches down to kiss Eva on the cheek. “And hello to you, too, darling,” he says. “Keepin’ the boys entertained?”

She smiles tightly. “Help yourself to a glass of wine, Tyrone. And there’s plenty to eat.”

He winks at me as he moves across the room.

Eva’s hurt, I can tell, that Ty greeted me first, and far more enthusiastically than he did her. I place my arm around her shoulders again. “You doing okay?” I ask softly.

“I’m just tired.”

“As well you should be. You’ve been working your butt off nonstop. I want you to take a few days’ rest after these guests leave. Our next crew doesn’t arrive until the weekend, but then it’s nonstop for the rest of the season. So I want you to rest up. Okay?”

She smiles up at me and pats my hand on her shoulder. “Ay, ay, Captain.”

“We should mingle,” I say. “Come on. You haven’t met Henry and Shane yet.”

We cross the room, excusing ourselves past people who all repeat the same congratulations, the same good-lucks. I spy Drake off to one side, shaking Ty’s hand. His eyes, however, never leave me for long. He’s making me distinctly uncomfortable.

“Well, here comes our handsome host,” Brent says as we approach.

I smile. “I’d like you all to meet my partner—er, I mean, my partner in Nirvana, my business partner—Eva Horner.” Isn’t it weird how a word like partner, which is really the only way to describe Eva, has taken on a romantic connotation within gay culture? I withdraw my arm as she steps forward a little bashfully. “Eva, this is Henry, Shane, and Brent.”

“Bravo!” Shane crows, clapping his hands. “I had no idea what to expect of this place. So many guest houses are tacky affairs. But this! I am so impressed with the style and the obvious care you have put into it!”

“Oh, my, thank you so much, Shane,” she says, clearly touched.

“It really is fabulous,” Henry agrees.

I feel a hand on my back. Two hands, actually. I turn. Drake and Ty are both behind me.

“What charming friends you have here, Lloyd,” Ty says, indicating Drake.

Drake’s eyes are locked on mine. “Well, when one is as charming as Lloyd, his friends can only be the same.”

So smooooth. They’re both so goddamn smooth.

“How are you, Drake?” I ask.

He kisses my check. “You know the answer to that question, handsome,” he says, winking.

I force my eyes not to roll. I introduce him to Eva.

Drake extends his hand and Eva takes it warmly. “I was just delighted to get an invitation in the mail,” he tells her, but his eyes are still on me. “A wonderful excuse to see Lloyd again. It’s been a while, hasn’t it, Lloyd?”

“Yes,” I say. “It’s been a while.”

“Where’s Jeff, by the way?”

I feel myself flush. “He’ll be here.”

Drake just smiles and nods.

“Is it true,” Shane’s asking Eva in a mock-conspiratorial stage whisper, “that you do impressions of Mae West?”

She blushes, slapping my shoulder playfully. “Oh. Has Lloyd been telling tales out of school again?”

“I was just bragging about your talents.”

“Please!” Shane actually gets down on his knees, looking like the jolly green giant on TV. “Will you do it for us?”

“Oh, I couldn’t …”

“Just one little ‘Come up and see me sometime’?” Shane begs.

“She hurt her ankle earlier,” I explain.

“Now, don’t be party poopers,” Brent scolds.

Eva laughs. “Well, maybe after some of these other people have left.”

“Okay,” Shane says, standing. “Then it’s a promise.”

She laughs again. Gay men certainly do seem to take to her, and she certainly seems at home with them. They’re all smiling at her, Henry commenting on her black velvet pantsuit and Shane admiring her ruby brooch. I step back a bit to watch them fuss over her, then notice that alone among them, Drake isn’t paying attention. He’s still looking at me.

“You must be very proud of this achievement,” Drake says quietly, moving closer. “I had no idea you wanted to open a guest house.”

I nod. “It just sort of came to me one day. I guess I’ve been looking for something to do for a while.”

He keeps staring at me. It’s really making me uneasy.

“It’s been a long time,” he says again, sipping his wine.

“Yes. Since Javitz’s memorial service, I think.”

“I saw you a few times afterwards.” Drake smiles, flashing his steel blue eyes. “In my dreams.”

I want to barf. What had I ever seen in this guy? He thinks he’s so suave, so sophisticated. I look around to be rescued by someone. Anyone.

The timing couldn’t be worse. There, in the doorway, is Jeff.

Jeff

“Oh, just great,” I groan. “Just fucking great.”

“What?” Anthony asks, coming up behind me.

“Oh, only somebody I didn’t expect to see and really wished I never would again.”

Lloyd has spotted me. I watch as he makes a beeline away from Drake toward me.

“Cat!” he calls. “You’re here!”

We kiss quickly, perfunctorily, on the lips. “You remember Anthony?” I ask.

“Sure, sure, hi,” Lloyd says, not even shaking his hand. He takes my arm. “I can’t wait to show you all we’ve done.”

“A good turnout,” I say, looking around. “You invited a lot of people.” A beat. “A few I didn’t expect.”

Lloyd stops in his tracks and looks over at me. “He’s on my mailing list. I wasn’t even aware he got an invitation.”

“Yeah, whatever. Anthony, you want a glass of wine?”

Lloyd lets go of my arm. “All of our old friends are here.”

“I see them,” I say, pouring myself and Anthony some wine.

Oh, yes, I see them. It was only with major reservations that I came here at all today. The idea of walking into a roomful of people I haven’t seen in quite some time is almost as unnerving as the prospect of having to deal with Eva again. No, it’s not a day I’ve been looking forward to, despite how much I’ve been missing Lloyd. Part of me wanted to be spiteful and stay home: after all, he’s apparently been too busy to respond to any of the E-mails I’ve sent him. E-mails in which I’ve tried to reconnect, tried to establish something—tried in my own feeble way not to let him go.

I hand the glass of wine to Anthony, who accepts it gratefully, as if he wanted something to do with his hands. I know Anthony feels awkward coming here, too; he was nervous the entire flight over on Cape Air, and it wasn’t just the ride in the eight-seater plane that made him anxious. He knew there would be people here who would view him with some degree of suspicion, or even hostility: all my old friends, who’ve been rooting for a reconciliation between Lloyd and me. It’s been a reminder to him that things aren’t as free and clear as we’ve been pretending they are these last few weeks.

It’s been easy to live with illusions. At the Black Party last week in New York, Anthony used the word “boyfriend” to describe me for the first time. “Is it so?” Eliot asked me. “Has our Jeff really been snared again?” I let it go for the time being. A heady conversation about relationships was the last thing I wanted to get into while watching a couple of porn stars rim each other on stage.

But ever since I suggested we come to Provincetown for Lloyd’s opening, Anthony’s been edgy, and now Lloyd’s discourteous greeting has only made things worse. It’s not like Lloyd to be so abrupt.

“Do you want a tour?” he’s asking.

“Maybe in a bit,” I say. “I don’t want to keep you from your guests. You were in the middle of what looked like a deep conversation when I came in.”

Anthony pulls away a little from us, pretending to admire a painting on the wall.

Lloyd moves in close to me and speaks in a lowered voice. “Knock it off, Jeff. I was just talking with him. I have been waiting all day for you to get here. Don’t start with attitude.”

I really don’t want to be a jerk. I did come with the best intentions. “Okay,” I say. “I’m sorry. No more about Drake.”

“That cleared up,” Lloyd says, lowering his voice even further, “why’d you bring him?”

“Anthony? What was I going to do? Leave him sitting alone in my living room?”

“You have before.”

“But this was a party.”

Lloyd rolls his eyes. “Whatever.”

I shake my head. “You know, Lloyd, every time we’ve seen each other for the past three months, we get into something right off the bat.” I feel genuinely sad all of a sudden. Was it just a few months ago that everything had seemed to be going so rosy?

Lloyd sighs. “I’m sorry, Jeff. You’re right. We should just let it go.”

We smile wanly at each other. Anthony approaches us again. “It’s a really nice house, Lloyd,” he says carefully.

Lloyd extends his hand. They shake. “Thanks, Anthony. I’ll be glad to give you a tour. There’s plenty of food, so help yourself, okay?”

“Thanks!” Anthony beams at the change in attitude.

Lloyd turns back to me. “I should mingle. But I’ll be back in a bit, okay?”

I nod. I watch him move off. Oh, man, I wish I hadn’t come. My eyes fix on Lloyd and Eva as they move through the crowd together, stopping to talk with people, basking in their goodwill and congratulations. At one point Eva even slips her arm through Lloyd’s. It’s like a goddamn wedding reception, that’s what it is.

“Jeff O’Brien!”

I turn. It’s my old friend Chanel. Once we were as thick as thieves, the first person either of us would call whenever anything good or bad happened in our lives. She helped us care for Javitz in his final illness, and next to Lloyd and me, she was probably the one who loved him best. We have a lot of history, Chanel and I.

But times have changed. Javitz is dead and Chanel is now a mom, and we don’t call each other anymore. She’s heading toward me, leading her three-year-old daughter Gertrude by the hand. They make the most multi-culti family you can imagine: Gertie was born in China, Chanel in the Philippines, and the other mommy, Wendy, is a white Anglo-Saxon Protestant. I smile as they approach.

“Gertie, scold Uncle Jeff for never coming to see you,” Chanel says.

“Bad Unca Jeff.”

I try to laugh. “I see we’re teaching our children how to impose guilt at an early age.”

Chanel eyes me stiffly. “We miss you, that’s all.”

We exchange brief kisses. “Chanel, Gertie, this is my friend Anthony.”

She gives him only the briefest of acknowledgments, keeping her eyes on me. “Jeff, how are you?” she asks. “Seriously. I ask Lloyd about you all the time. I haven’t heard from you in months.”

“I’m sorry, Chanel. I’ve just been busy.”

“Busy with what?”

I stammer a little. “Well, I’ve been traveling …”

She harrumphs. “You haven’t been busy writing; I know that much.”

I’m getting a little annoyed at her attitude. “You don’t know that.”

“No, I don’t. You’re right. And why don’t I know? Because I never hear from you.”

Anthony leans in a bit. “I’m going to get some more wine. Can I get anybody anything?”

I shake my head and Chanel ignores him. Anthony moves away as quickly as he can. I don’t blame him.

“Chanel,” I say, trying to smile, “you know I don’t take well to being interrogated.”

She smirks, nodding her head in Anthony’s direction. “Is he one of your circuit-party boys? Is that where you met him? Are you doing drugs, Jeff? I’ve read the articles about the circuit scene. I know what goes on at those things. Raising all this money supposedly to fight AIDS while encouraging all sorts of unsafe sex and drug use.”

I blink my eyes in disbelief. “Chanel, you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

She scowls. “I’m sorry if I sound bitchy, but I worry about you.”

“Well, I’d appreciate it if you’d stop. Being bitchy and worrying.”

She sighs. Gertrude is standing at the edge of a table, popping grapes from a platter in her mouth. “That’s enough, sweetheart,” Chanel says, taking her hand. “They give you gas.”

“So how are you?” I ask, trying to change the subject. “Gertie’s gotten so big—”

“I’m angry with you, Jeff,” Chanel says, spinning on me suddenly. She draws herself up straight. “I just can’t stand here and make small talk with you.”

“Well, okay.” I try once again to smile, to get her to laugh. “Shall we sit and make small talk, then?”

She seems infuriated that I’m not giving her what she wants. And what is that? Repentance? Humility? Mea culpas? A quick and easy reconciliation with Lloyd so that everything could be just like it was between all of us—a lifetime ago?

She just glares at me. “Javitz would be so disappointed in you,” she says finally, surely knowing that’s the cruelest thing she could say to me. “He didn’t leave you that money just so you could squander it all away.” She hustles Gertrude off into the crowd.

I just stand there. It’s as if she’d just slapped me across the face. I don’t move, don’t blink. Anthony returns and waves his hand in front of my face.

“You okay, Jeff?”

“No.” I down the last of my wine. “I want to get out of here. I don’t belong here.”

“We can’t leave. Henry’s over there. Shane and Brent, too.”

I’d actually been looking forward to getting the chance to throw some attitude Henry’s way, laying the guilt on him for being so out of touch. But now, after Chanel’s little scene, I don’t have the heart for it. Instead, I greet Henry warmly, hugging him close, doing the same to Shane and—saints preserve us—even to Brent. I’m glad to see them. I relax a little in their presence, keeping as far from my old friends as I can.

“You know, Eva is so nice,” Shane’s saying. “We were talking and she told me her husband had been gay. She just opened right up and told me that.”

“Yeah, she told me, too,” Henry says. “She started sharing about how he had died of AIDS. She even started to cry a little. Jeff, you never told us all that.”

I just shrug.

“Well, look what she gave me,” Shane says. From his pocket, he pulls out a rhinestone-covered cock ring. I’m not kidding you. A rhinestone-covered cock ring. “She said it was Steven’s! Can you believe it? I just met this lady and she gives me her husband’s cock ring!”

They all laugh. Except me, who can manage only a tight little grin.

“I really want to get out of here,” I whisper again to Anthony.

“Jeff, we’ve got to wait a little bit. We just got here.”

Henry’s leaning in to me, having overheard my words. “Eva is really nice, Jeff. You ought to give her more of a chance.”

“Oh, she is awesome,” Shane adds. “I love huh!”

A tall black man in Prada has climbed up onto the coffee table and is trying to get everyone’s attention. “People, please! I’d like to propose a toast.”

Folks quiet down. “To Lloyd and Eva.” The guy waves his glass of wine over the crowd like a priest wielding an incense burner at Mass. “To Nirvana.” He lifts his glass.

Who the fuck is he? I don’t even know Lloyd’s friends anymore.

“To having the courage to follow your dreams and make them come true,” the guy says, completing his toast.

“Hear, hear!” several people call out as everyone raises their glasses to Lloyd and Eva. They smile. They clink glasses. They kiss. Everyone applauds.

“Kind of like a wedding reception, huh, Jeff?”

It’s Brent breathing in my ear.

Lloyd

The party is winding down. The sun’s dropping lower in the sky and many of the guests have already departed. Ty has brought out Eva’s wedding album, much to her giggles and halfhearted protestations. She sits on the couch beside Ira, our first night guest, who’s by now pretty plastered. I watch him carefully, not wanting to have to clean up after him if he gets sick. Eva has her wedding album on her lap, and Ira’s leaning in eagerly to see each photo. He’s a middle-aged man with a receding hairline and barely any chin. He keeps gushing over how handsome Steven is. Eva’s clearly delighted.

I begin to surreptitiously clear off plates from the tables, hoping the remaining guests might get the clue and hit the road. I’m tired, and I still haven’t had any time alone with Jeff. Something went down between him and Chanel; I don’t know exactly what, but Chanel and Wendy left in a hurry. Jeff hasn’t moved much since he got here, standing off in the corner talking with Henry and Anthony, seeming to keep as far away as he can from old friends like Melissa, Rose, and Naomi.

“May I help you with these?”

I look over at a pair of hands stacking plates beside me. I move my eyes up and there’s Drake.

“Oh. Thanks. You can just put them in the kitchen.”

Drake winks at me. “I’d like to make a reservation for Memorial Day weekend,” he says, adding a couple more plates to the stack and grabbing the stem of a wineglass with his forefinger.

“Actually,” I tell him, “I think we’re already booked.”

“Ah. Good for you. Business is booming.” He follows me into the kitchen and sets the plates on the counter. “Actually, I’d make a reservation for any night you have available. Just to get the chance to see you again.”

He tries to kiss me. I pull back.

“I don’t want to go there, Drake,” I say. “I hope you understand.”

He looks puzzled. “I’d heard that you and Jeff had reconciled, but then I’d also heard that it was off again. Still the same old dance, huh?”

I feel defensive. “Don’t comment on something you know nothing about.”

Drake holds up his hands. “Hey. I didn’t mean to make you mad. I apologize.”

“It’s okay.” I sigh. “Look, I appreciate your coming today.”

He leans up against the sink and folds his arms against his chest. “So there’s no chance, huh? No chance you’d have dinner with me?”

I hesitate, not sure how to respond. Jeff’s always said Drake is the kind of guy who grew up always getting what he wanted—prep schools, trust funds, the right connections to get the best jobs—and he’s right. It’s one of the reasons nothing could ever have worked between Drake and me. His interest in me stems from the fact that I said no. I’m one of the few things in life Drake hasn’t gotten when he wanted it.

“I’m really busy, Drake,” I tell him. “Please understand.”

He nods, but he looks perturbed. “Oh, I do.” He smiles bitterly. “Better than you think.”

He turns to walk out of the kitchen when he nearly collides with Ty. “Well,” Ty says, looking from Drake to me. He seems a bit arch. “Hope I wasn’t interrupting anything.”

“I was just leaving,” Drake insists.

Ty sweeps his eyes across him. “Then allow me to escort you out,” he says flirtatiously, taking Drake’s arm in an apparent attempt to get back at me. Drake grins. Ty walks with him out into the parlor.

I laugh to myself. How do I get myself in these situations?

When I follow them, I see Drake hand Ty his phone number. Their eyes hold several seconds longer than necessary as they shake hands good-bye. Drake doesn’t even turn to look back at me before he heads out the door. I laugh again. So maybe his trip out here to Provincetown hasn’t been entirely in vain.

In the parlor, Shane’s sitting on the back of the couch, peering over Eva’s shoulder at the wedding album. “You are so right, Ira,” he’s saying. “Steven was a major hunk and a half.”

“He certainly was,” Eva agrees fondly.

I look down at the album. Are they just being kind? Steven looks like a zoned-out hippy. Given that they got married in 1970, I figure Steven probably was a zoned-out hippy. He’s got a big, bushy head of black hair, a beard, and for his wedding outfit he’s wearing a green poncho with a gold star in the center of his chest. Eva’s all in white lace, daisies woven through her long, free-flowing hair. Except for the fact that she keeps her hair tied up now and rarely exposes that much cleavage, she looks the same, her skin still as unlined as it was thirty years ago.

“Come on, Eva, enough people have left,” Shane suddenly urges. “You promised.”

“Promised what?” Ira asks.

She closes the wedding album. “Oh, I don’t know,” she says.

“Please?” Shane begs.

“Please what?” Ira repeats.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Ty suddenly intones, jumping up onto a chair. “May I present to you Tira! The lady of the sideshows—who can tame more than lions!”

All at once Eva springs from the couch and leaps up on top of the coffee table. I’m taken aback by how agile she is.

Apparently that twisted ankle healed really fast.

She moves this way and that, becoming Mae West immediately, one hand on hip, the other pushing at her hair. “They call me Sister Honky Tonk,” she sings. The hips start swinging. “They call me Sister Honk Tonk …”

I watch in wonder. This little unhappy lady has learned to find herself in moments like these. I think of how hard she’s worked these past few weeks, how determined she is to make our venture a success. As I watch her swing her hips and sing to the cheers of the boys, I can’t help but love her. I want to laugh and cry at the same time.

Henry, Brent, Anthony, and Jeff have gathered closer to watch. The other three laugh and cheer, but I notice how Jeff holds back, his arms crossed over his chest, only the smallest smile fixed on his face. I sigh. I’d hoped he might melt a little toward Eva, seeing her do Mae West.

“Ah, but you were wonderful tonight,” Ty says, in character, feeding her lines.

“Oooohhh. I’m always wonderful at night.”

Laughter from the crowd.

“Yes, but tonight you were especially good,” Ty says.

“When I’m good, I’m very good, but when I’m bad, I’m better.”

More laughter, hoots.

“If only I could trust you …”

She puts a hand behind her head. “Oh, you can. Hundreds have.”

“You go, girl!” Shane shouts.

The whole room erupts into cheers. She giggles, covering her mouth and stepping down off the coffee table. They keep hooting and hollering for her. She dissolves into laughter, sitting back down and burying her face in Ira’s chest. Shane lifts a shiny glass figurine of the Buddha from a side table and presents it to Eva like an Oscar. It’s one of the many we’ve filled the house with, and for a second I recall the little wooden Buddha we found, and wonder where it is. It was our good-luck omen, a gift from the house on our first night here. What has happened to it?

But who has time to think? Everybody’s on their feet, cheering. Henry places his pinkies in his mouth and whistles. I beam. My eyes catch Eva’s and we exchange a look. It’s good. Everything’s going to be okay.

Jeff

I can’t take it, all the cheering. I have to back away. I mean, am I really the only one who can see through her? See how pathetic her bids for attention really are? Why are all these gay men so eager to think she’s so special?

“Come on,” Henry’s saying, noticing my reticence. “Go congratulate her.”

“For what? Making a fool of herself?”

He scowls at me. “You are one mean queen, Jeff O’Brien. She didn’t make a fool of herself. She was funny. Give her a chance, Jeff. She seems like a terrific lady.”

I ignore him. I want to get out of here. I’ve made my appearance. I don’t care for a tour. This isn’t my house. It’s Lloyd’s and hers. Why do I care to see any more of it than I have?

Okay, you’re right. I’m being totally snarky. And I’m smart enough to know that even in my snarkiness I’m not being entirely honest. Eva’s little performance was funny, and these guys have every reason to think she’s just grand. I’m jealous. Plain and simple. I’m admitting it. What more do you want me to do?

“Jeff,” Henry says, melting a little and putting his arm around my shoulder. “Do you need to talk?”

“I’m fine, Henry.”

He sighs. “Jeff, there was a time I would have spent a lot of energy trying to get you to talk. But I’m not doing that anymore. If you want to talk, I’m here, but I’m not going to beg you to do so.”

I look at him. Doesn’t he realize he’s part of the problem? He’s pulled away, too, and lately there have been times I’ve felt as if I were all alone on a goddamn deserted island. “Henry,” I say, trying to hide some of the desperation I can feel building in my chest, “are you sure you won’t reconsider going to Palm Springs for the White Party with us? It’s a Jeffrey Sanker event, and you know Sanker’s events are awesome.”

“No, Jeff.” Henry won’t meet my eyes. “It conflicts with the Weekend of Hope. Don’t you want to stay for Boston’s own party?”

I frown. “And see the same old tired faces? Come on, Henry. You had a fabulous time last year.”

“You had the fabulous time, Jeff. Remember? You met that hot guy from Germany. I had to sleep out by the Wyndham pool because you guys took the room.”

“You told me you had a good time,” I protest.

“No, Jeff. I’m not going to Palm Springs.”

“I just miss you, buddy,” I say, suddenly unable to hide how vulnerable I feel. Maybe it’s the wine. Maybe it’s all that cheering for Eva. Maybe it’s being here in a house that Lloyd is sharing with someone else. “I just miss hanging out with you on the dance floor.”

Henry looks over at me. I can see he’s struggling with this, too.

I grip his hand. “Will you at least come to Wild and Wet in Montreal? Please?” Damn, I sound like I’m begging.

Henry sighs.

I give him a little smile. “I’m sure Shane’s bringing an awesome water gun.”

Henry laughs. “I’ll bet it’s an Uzi.” He smiles back at me. “I’ll think about it, Jeff.”

Lloyd approaches us. “So what did you think of Eva’s rendition of Mae West?”

Henry laughs. “She was awesome! Totally!”

I smile. “Your guests won’t need to go to the Crown and Anchor for drag shows this summer. They can just stay right here.”

“I still haven’t given you a tour, Jeff,” Lloyd says.

“Well, we’ve got to hurry. Our plane leaves in less than an hour.”

Lloyd gestures for me to follow. I say all the appropriate things about the new paint jobs, the new art, the new curtains, the new carpeting. I make no specific comment about Lloyd’s room, and Lloyd says nothing about me sitting at the desk, writing with a view of the bay. Neither of us acknowledges the big canopied bed or the photo of the two of us with Javitz from almost a decade ago, hanging prominently in the middle of the wall. All we exchange are pleasantries, as if I’m just one more visitor passing through.

And maybe I am. Ever since I’ve gotten here, I’ve felt distinctly unspecial. Just like anybody else, with no more claim to the place than Brent—or Drake—and even less than Ira, who at least is a paying guest. Eva embraced me once, in her usual effusive style, but then kept her distance, doing her thing, hanging on to Lloyd’s arm. And so long as Lloyd refuses to talk about it—about how that dynamic makes me feel—I can see no future in continuing anything with him. As we start back down the stairs, I tell myself it’s really over this time. I don’t even feel sad. Just numb. And restless. All I want to do is get on the plane with Anthony so we can go home and start packing for Palm Springs.

Lloyd looks at me. “When am I going to see you again?”

I sigh. “What for, Lloyd? Why are we pretending things are still happening between us?”

We stop in the middle of the stairs. Lloyd takes my hands. “I love you, Jeff.”

I sigh. “It’s not about that and you know it.”

Eva’s suddenly in front of us, trying to help Ira walk. “He needs to go upstairs and lie down,” she says.

“I’ll be okay,” the drunken guest insists. “Just make everything stop spinning.”

Lloyd and I take him from her, gripping him under the arms. We help him up the stairs and into his room and ease him down onto the bed. Eva places a cold damp cloth across his brow. “You just rest a while,” she whispers.

We close Ira’s door behind them. “Poor man,” Eva says.

“An innkeeper provides many services, I guess,” I observe.

Eva smiles. “From now on, no more free wine for the guests.” We all laugh without much conviction. She looks up at me. “Are you leaving, Jeff?”

I nod.

“Well, don’t be a stranger,” she says, heading back down the stairs. I notice I don’t get a hug good-bye. “Feel free to visit us anytime,” she calls back over her shoulder. “You’re always welcome here.”

Lloyd looks at me. “Please, Jeff, don’t go yet,” he says. “I just want to say good night to some folks who are leaving. Please let’s talk more before you go.”

I promise nothing. I follow him down the stairs and watch him disappear into the parlor.

“Get our coats,” I whisper to Anthony. “We’ve got to get a cab and get to the airport.”

Henry sees us planning to escape and tries to stop us. “Wait, Jeff. I can give you guys a ride back to Boston. I drove down with Shane and Brent. We’ll be leaving shortly.”

“No, I want to go now,” I tell him. I don’t want to say good-bye to Lloyd. Not again. I can’t bear it. Anthony hands me my leather jacket and I slip it on. He buttons up his pea coat.

“You can’t just leave,” Henry admonishes me.

“Watch us,” I say as Anthony and I quietly slip out the door.

Lloyd

It’s late. I sit alone on the couch, listening to the grandfather clock tick loudly from the other room. Both Eva and Ty went up to bed over an hour ago, with Ty giving me the eye as if to say, My door will be unlocked. But I’m not in any mood for that tonight. I sit and watch the fire go down, bit by bit, until all that remains are a few smoldering cinders.

Why are we pretending things are still happening between us?

I’ve tried, but no matter what I do, I can’t get Jeff’s words out of my mind. He left without even saying good-bye, and I feel certain he won’t call, either. Is it really over, then? Is this it?

No—I just can’t give up. Not yet. I can’t believe our karma’s been exhausted, our story fully told.

Memories dance through my head. A warm spring day, out on the back deck of our old apartment in the South End of Boston, grilling tofu dogs on our tiny barbecue, then eating them together, one of us at either end, nibbling toward the middle and ending with a kiss. How silly we were. How young and giddy and in love.

I love you, Jeff.

It’s not about that and you know it.

Then what is it about? If we love each other, why is it all so hard?

I start to stand up, then notice Eva’s wedding album on the coffee table.

Something makes me flip open the front cover and look down at the inscription.

Steven and Eva

April 15, 1970

I stare at it for several seconds before realizing what’s wrong.

She said they were married on Valentine’s Day. That’s why she was so emotional that day she ran out of the car ….

Why would she lie about something like that?

I put out the fire and shut off the last of the lights. I grip the banister and make my way up the stairs. I need to sleep, put thoughts of Jeff out of my mind, at least for now. Morning will come early, and I’ll have three guests waiting for Belgian waffles and poached eggs—though I doubt poor old Ira will want much to eat.

I should probably check on him. He may have gotten sick, or fallen out of bed. As I approach his door, I can hear sounds, low and guttural, that at first I take for retching. I steel myself and place my hand on the doorknob, ready to turn it and walk inside.

Something makes me hesitate. Should I do it, or just leave him alone? Ira’s a grown man, after all. He’d probably prefer being sick in private. But it had been me who’d provided the wine. In some ways, it’s my responsibility as a guesthouse owner to check in on him. I’ll just see if he needs anything. If not, I’ll just let him be.

I open the door.

Ira isn’t retching. He’s fucking Eva.

Her head is hanging off the bed, her hair flowing down almost to the floor, her big breasts bouncing, her eyes closed as she moans in delirious ecstasy. Ira’s pumping hard on top of her. His eyes lift briefly to lock with mine.

I quickly close the door.

“Holy shit,” I whisper to myself. I stand there for several seconds, unable to fathom what I’d just seen. I can’t move or think. Then all at once I hurry to my room, not wanting to hear either of them orgasm.

Needless to say, sleep is not a visitor this night.