15. DANNY

Amidst the hustle and bustle of my daily routine in the next few days at home, I found myself immersed in a whirlwind of activities, the threads of mundane existence mixing with thinking about Bruno and Evan and my new part-time life in New York.

Workdays blurred into a monotonous jumble of meetings. As I sat through yet another marathon management session, my mind drifted to them, to some other life, I don't know, some yearning for escape from the corporate confines. I felt unsettled in a way I hadn't before. I caught up with Bruno's sister, Nicole, and went on and on about how great he and Evan were until she almost glazed over and went, "I get it, Danny, you like them!"

Fingers tapping away on the keyboard of my laptop, I was hardly thinking about the projects I was supposed to be attending to at all. I went on Zoom meetings with clients and found my attention wandering. Sometimes I didn't even turn my camera on. I would never have done that before.

Apart from long hours at the office, the gym became a kind of sanctuary, a realm where the lifting of weights and the pounding of footsteps on the treadmill could beat out my emotions. With each rep and every stride, I pushed myself to the limit, pumping my desire to get back out of my body through sheer exertion. But when Bruno's text messages appeared on my phone, nothing prevented me from stopping whatever exercise I was doing to read them. Always, I caught myself grinning as I scrolled through the words.

Evenings brought social outings with friends or colleagues at bars or restaurants. Sometimes, amidst the throng of animated conversations and clinking glasses, I found respite in a quiet corner, my phone aglow with our quick texts back and forth.

"Another round?" My friend's voice cut through the din, beckoning me to join the festivities.

I looked up and said, "Oh, sure."

My friend winked at me.

"Who is she?"

I didn't understand.

"What?"

"Who are you texting? Who is she?"

I felt a hot glow of embarrassment.

"Oh!" I said. "No, it's not like that. It's a buddy."

My friend's brow furrowed.

"You don't text me like that," he said, patting my shoulder to mean that I should go with him. With a mischievous grin, I slipped the phone into my pocket, thinking what I really wanted was the glow of my phone's screen. But what I really wanted, of course, was to be back in New York.

The fourth day dawned with the usual flurry of activity, the rhythm of the workweek pulling me into its relentlessness. Amidst the din of ringing phones and clacking keyboards, a text cut through.

FACETIME TONIGHT WITH ME AND EVAN AT 6:30?

My heart leaped with excitement.

"Great!" I replied. With each passing moment, the anticipation bubbled within me, a fizzy concoction of excitement and joy.

As the day wore on, I found myself lost in a whirlwind of tasks and deadlines, time slipping through my fingers. Yet, amidst the onslaught of work, one thought remained constant: the promise of our FaceTime call.

When the clock struck six, I made my escape from the office, no seven, seven-thirty work-lates today. I slipped out the office door, giving no goodbyes, offering no possibility for people to quickly drag me into another meeting.

Rushing through my city's streets, I felt a surge of adrenaline as I raced toward home. A fear of missing their call began to gnaw at the edges of my consciousness, urging me onward until I was almost jogging down the sidewalk. Only gradually did I realize quite how much this meant to me, quite how much emotion I was putting into a phone call. What did it all mean to me now?

Finally, I arrived at my doorstep, breathless and exhilarated, at the threshold of my home. I reached for my phone, the anticipation building with each passing second. I was suddenly terrified that I might miss the call, as if it were impossible I could just call them back. I found I didn't want to let them down, not even for a minute.

As I stepped into my apartment, a sense of relief flooded over me. With quick hands, I shed the trappings of the day – shoes kicked off, suit jacket discarded, work shirt pulled out, top button unplucked – and collapsed onto my couch.

As the clock struck 6:30, that familiar chime filled the air, my phone ringing. On the first ring, I tapped Answer. As if coming through some space vortex, their faces materialized on the glowing screen of my iPhone, and the two of them – father and son, so similar – appeared. Their smiles were immediately radiant, and they both started waving.

"Hey, there!" I cried.

Bruno's grin was infectious.

"That must've been the first ring, Danny."

I laughed and felt a little shy.

"Yeah, I was just sitting here, waiting for you to call." Then I thought I should try to muster some cool. "I only just got in from work, so I decided not to start doing anything else."

"Hello, Danny!" Evan yelled.

"Hey, buddy!" I replied. "How are you doing?"

"I am excellent, thank you!"

Bruno was smiling, looking down at his son and then at the screen at me. "Evan's been talking about you all week," Bruno said.

Evan, ever the bundle of energy, threw his arms wide in a gesture of exaggerated affection.

"I've missed you this much, Danny!" he said.

I couldn't help but laugh at his exuberance, the genuine affection of a child.

"Tell your best bud everything that's been going on," Danny said to him.

Evan launched into a spirited retelling of his latest schoolyard adventure, of playground escapades and then of his classroom triumphs, of things the teacher said, the things he said back, or someone else – always referred to by first and second name – said.

"Wow!" I exclaimed, my enthusiasm genuine as I marveled at his story. "Great stuff, Evan!"

Bruno laughed.

"Okay, buddy," he said to his son. "I think that's enough for now. You're giving Danny the long version."

The boy's brow furrowed.

"What's the long version?"

Bruno laughed again.

"What you're giving."

Evan looked back at the screen.

"Bye, Danny." He threw his arms wide again. "I miss you this much!"

Then, without further ado, he dashed off, leaving Bruno and me alone. As our eyes met, screen to screen, we shared a small moment of silence.

As Bruno's image flickered on the screen before me, bathed in the soft glow of the digital display, I couldn't stop myself from asking it.

"So, have you missed me, too?"

Bruno's reaction was immediate, his eyes widening in surprise, his lips parting. I could see his emotion that I had even asked.

"Sure, of course," he replied, his voice tinged with a hint of shyness.

A strange awkwardness settled over us, the unspoken tension of me saying something cute and attracting when, in fact, it was not clear I was trying to attract him at all yet. I knew I had to back off. I knew I could come on too strong. It was the other side of not being available for relationships: sometimes I could turn it on too strong. I needed to keep it in check.

To redirect the conversation, I changed tack.

"So, what have you been up to?"

"Looking after a five-year-old," he said wearily. "I've had a couple of writing commissions, though, so that should keep me out of bankruptcy for a while yet."

In that moment, I felt a surge of determination to offer my assistance, to be a friend, a support to him.

"Hey, if you ever need help, don't hesitate to ask," I said earnestly.

Bruno waved off my offer with a shake of the head, his refusal tinged with pride and self-reliance.

"No, no, thanks, man," he replied graciously, a small smile playing at the corners of his lips. "I wasn't hinting or anything."

"I know," I reassured him. "I'm just saying."

"Yeah, I know. I appreciate it. You're already doing so much, just letting me in on your thousand bucks a week."

"Low-level corporate corruption," I joked. He laughed.

"Let's have more of it."

I shook my head and grinned. "They work me hard enough."

Bruno's mood shifted into a different lightness.

"Oh, and I've made a lot of progress on my novel," he said. "It just suddenly shot forward, and I even have a new idea for the ending, and it's really just all coming together really quickly."

The chance to bring up the subject again was irresistible.

"Can I read some of it?" I said. "Come on, man!"

Bruno's reluctance was palpable, even through the screen.

"Oh, I don't know," he said. "I mean, it's not really ready yet…"

I wasn't about to let him off the hook that easily.

"Come on, just a glimpse? You promised."

He arched an eyebrow playfully.

"I don't think I did promise," he purred.

Ha, I went.

"Okay, I promise I won't be too critical. What do I know about novels?"

Bruno's laughter echoed through the digital space between us.

"You know plenty. Don't act dumb with me. You're plenty literary."

"Go on!" I cried. "Go on!"

He widened his eyes in a jokey reprimand.

"All right, all right," he relented, his grin infectious. "I'll think about it."

"Think?" I teased.

"Yes," he insisted. "Think." As our laughter faded, our eyes met on the screen. "When are you back?" Bruno asked, his voice trying not to sound too much like longing.

"Day after tomorrow, if I come a day early," I replied, the anticipation hot within me. "I mean, if you want me to." I felt so nervous saying it. I was normally never nervous. "I can fly out the night before I'm due at work, if you like."

Bruno's nod of agreement filled me with a sense of such pleasure.

"Yeah, I'd really like that," he murmured. Then he cleared his throat. "I mean, we both would."

A sudden crash behind Bruno shattered the moment, something falling over and thudding to the floor. With a rueful smile, he said, "I've got to go. It sounds like Evan's tearing my home apart."

I laughed.

"Say goodbye to him for me," I said.

"Sure," Bruno replied.

"Day after tomorrow," I said, knowing he was about to end the call.

"Great," he replied, smiling into the screen. "Bye." And then it went black.

That evening, I sifted through the contents of my bedroom, preparing for my impending return to New York. This time, I was going to be more organized with what I took so that I could just leave stuff there, with him, so that I could go back and forth – and then the phrase hit me – between my two homes.

I was looking forward to it now. The irony wasn't lost on me – I had initially resisted the idea of going to New York, yet now I found myself contemplating extending my stay longer than the two days I had to be there. Things had certainly changed.

I took a shower, relishing the warmth of the cascading water over my naked body. Eventually, I got out and started to towel dry. The familiar ping from my phone sounded, but this was the new-email tone. I reached for the device, unlocking it to reveal an email from Bruno titled "MY NOVEL."

I felt such a warm rush to see the two words. I tapped the attachment file and waited for Word to download the file, but straightaway, I saw the title.

A PLACE TO STAY

By

Bruno Burgess

I was grinning, I knew it, from ear to ear.

I sat up the whole night reading it. I was amazed by how engrossed I was in the words. I could not put it down, devouring the first two-thirds with an insatiable hunger. From the opening lines, I was drawn into its world.

The story unfolded, a delicate dance between two souls in love, or rather trying to hang on to their love. It had a beautiful yet melancholic tone, affecting, atmospheric. Every scene was painted carefully but with such a lightness of touch. I found myself drawn into the two main characters by the authenticity of their struggles and the depth and universality of their emotions.

His characters breathed with a life of their own. Their hopes and fears felt real, close to any person who had been in love or wanted to be. Through Bruno's storytelling, I glimpsed fragments of my own truth, mirrored in the characters' yearnings to be happy, to find someone – something – real.

Even as the clock struck 2:00 in the morning, I found myself unable to tear myself away from the story. With each turn of the page, my admiration of him only grew, but also my sense that I was seeing something, knowing something, about him that I hadn't before.

Eventually, I reluctantly tore myself away from the pages, knowing I had to sleep before work the next day. Yet, even as I went about that day – skipping the gym because I was too tired – I found my thoughts returning, again and again, to the novel.

On my lunch break, I opened the file from the email and found where I had got to: the moment where after the two central characters had broken up, a new, third person arrived. Reading that for an hour –actually two hours, pretending that I was back at work, answering an email now and then to look as if I was doing something – I realized that the person who was arriving was the new storyline he had been talking about. And then something else occurred to me: was he writing about, or at least because of, my arrival in his life?

I finished the novel not long after I got home from work. I texted him.

I'M DONE. DO YOU WANT TO HEAR MY THOUGHTS? THEY ARE ALL GOOD

He was online at once but didn't respond immediately. A full thirty seconds passed, the two of us staring at our screen, no doubt. Then Bruno was typing…

SURE OK

I smiled.

COOL

I dialed his number. The moment he picked up, a wave of warmth washed over me, and I knew what I was going to say. No sweet greetings, no pleasantries. Without preamble, I launched into my praise about every part of the book.

I told Bruno that his novel, with its brilliance and depth, with its wonderful characters and their very real dilemmas, their romance and tragedy, and then the surprise shift that it was not a book about the failure of love but its inevitability, had to be shared with the world.

My voice was urgent, insistent even. I could hear it myself. I urged him to send the manuscript to his literary agent without delay and told him that she was going to love it. All my enthusiasm and belief in him poured out of me, and he was silent the whole time.

Finally, I said to him, "That's it. I'm done."

He remained silent a moment.

"Jeez, what have I done?" he whispered, his words half-joking yet tinged with a realer doubt. But I refused to let him waver or hesitate or do himself down in any way.

"You're going to do this, Bruno," I said. I laughed. "I am going to make you do this, to believe in yourself. Your novel is so amazing. You are going to be a great novelist, and people are going to love your work."

"Do you really think so?" he asked, his voice full of both hope and nerves.

"I know it," I said. "I know it!" I laughed. "Send it to the agent."

"What?"

I nodded. I didn't doubt at all.

"Send it to her right now."

"What? No. The ending's not finished."

I was laughing. I felt like I was tipsy, honestly. I just knew he should do it.

"Tell her that. Tell her you can wait, but you are happy with how it's going. She will want in."

I could feel his confusion but also his excitement.

"Or at least just tell her you've had incredible feedback on the new draft. What have you got to lose?"

He laughed as if in fake terror.

"Everything!"

"Listen to me, Bru. Your novel is brilliant. I believe in it, and you, so completely. I will bet you a thousand dollars she will say yes."

He groaned jokily.

"But I don't have a thousand dollars!"

Ha, I went.

"Then send the email. You don't have a choice now!"

In the morning, I rose early, satisfied and contented. The soft glow of the day filtered through the curtains. It was 6:30, and instead of heading to the gym, I just luxuriated in bed, thinking of him. I got hard. I jerked off, still thinking of him. I was not afraid to admit it: I jerked off thinking about Bruno's face, body, him naked, us lying in bed together, him touching my cock. I shot up my semen right up my belly and chest and only afterward realized how hard my heart was beating.

My workday was the usual churn of emails and meetings. In one such meeting, my phone vibrated with a gentle insistence. I glanced down to find a message from Bruno. I tapped it – a beautiful snapshot of him and Evan on the subway, their smiles shining and open, as they bit into the same knish. A burst of laughter escaped my lips as I tapped out a heart emoji in response. Then I looked up and saw my colleagues staring at me. My boss looked troubled.

"Is everything okay, Danny?"

I felt so embarrassed, so caught out, like a school kid caught with a phone in class. Would they confiscate it now? Send me to the principal's office?

"Sorry, sorry, everyone."

But as the meeting wore on, I kept my phone unlocked and the picture open, stealing glances at the two of them.

Then, at three o'clock, I left the office for the airport, ready to fly back to New York.