4. BRUNO

Iawoke with a start, sunlight gently caressing my face. I had left my curtains open slightly, and the morning was creeping in, poking me back to sleep. I blinked away the remnants of sleep. Stretching, I became aware of my morning erection, a reminder perhaps of dreams during the night.

The sun filtering through the gaps in my curtains was casting a golden hue over the room. The thudding of low music from my upstairs neighbor above seeped through the ceiling and punctuated the stillness of the morning. I pushed aside the possibility of sleep and arose, my erect penis bouncing around.

I showered and dressed, then decided to get on with my day. The soft hum of the refrigerator and the gentle tick of the clock served as a backdrop to my thoughts. I went to my work desk and turned on my laptop, idly looking at my emails with precisely zero offers of work.

Despite being that bookish kid in school, it was only in the last couple of years that I took writing a novel seriously. I started and stopped a first attempt, and now my second was going quite well. For many months, I had poured my heart and soul into its pages but dreams that were very much yet to be realized.

I had made a few approaches to literary agents. Their rejections had been a bitter pill to swallow, each a sobering reminder of the harsh realities of publishing. Only one agent had expressed any interest. She had written that I could definitely write and, when I was ready with another draft, to send it back to her.

"I am not being polite," she had written in her email saying "not yet" rather than "no." "I really think you could be a success." But she still hadn't taken me on. I had entered her name into my Contacts – Cheryl Chang – as a hope, a possibility, that one day she might.

As I threw myself back into the world of my novel, words flowed effortlessly, appearing, flickering, on my laptop screen. My fingers ran quickly over the keyboard. I was hardly thinking of the words I would put down; they just poured out of me. I wrote for a couple of hours without even getting up from my seat. I was locked into the creative moment, and I had to trust in my future and my abilities.

Eventually, I decided to make myself a coffee just to give myself a break. Getting up, I walked into the kitchen area of my living room. I had stopped using my Nespresso machine. I claimed it was because of the environment, but it was really because of the cost. I got my espresso maker out and filled it with water and grounds.

As the coffee percolated, filling the air with its heady fragrance, I found myself lost in the labyrinth of my thoughts about everything that was ahead: Danny, Evan, money, and whether I could stay in New York. Of course, if I could get a deal for my novel, some of my problems might recede. And how long would Danny's five hundred dollars a week last? He could stop coming after a few weeks – decide he would prefer to move into a hotel – and that would be over, too, and I would be back to square one. I drank the coffee and worked a little while longer but then decided what I really needed was to go for a run, always my go-to when I felt anxious or unsettled.

As I laced up my running shoes and ventured out, I thought of Danny again, thought of his smile, as I remembered it, his body in the steam of the shower, those moments when he came to see what I was reading, bowing down to check the cover, brushing the dark hair from his dark eyes, maybe briefly our fingers touching as he lifted the cover of the novel to see the title.

I scolded myself for my foolishness, for allowing my mind to wander down such paths from the past. It was nothing, just a fleeting teenage infatuation born of circumstance and proximity. It was nothing!

I ran the bustling Lower East Side streets, up toward the East Village, lost in the ebb and flow of the city's population, and cleared my head. I returned to that idea: trust in your future, Bru, just trust in your future. I could picture Kelly smirking at me: "You've been doing that for years, Bruno, and what's changed? What's actually happened to you?"

That afternoon, I had to go pick up Evan from school. Kelly had asked me if I could swap with her, and I said okay. I went home after my run and showered before I caught the subway uptown to the school near where my son lived with his mother. As the warm water cascaded over my weary body, I let out a tired sigh, the worries of the day melting away. I was always happy in the company of my son.

I briefly returned to work before it was time to leave. Seated at my desk, I gazed at the blank page before me, the cursor blinking, awaiting the touch of my fingertips on the keyboard.

My novel was named A Place to Stay, and it was the story of the search for just that: a place where a person wants to rest, finds safety, where happiness might live for them. The protagonist was a young man looking for love in a shifting world of short-term relationships, trying to find the person who would complete them.

Myriad possibilities lay before my hero – he didn't have a name –a kaleidoscope of lives he could lead or leave as he searched for romance, passion, and meaning. Would he find solace in the arms of a kindred spirit, their love a balm for the past? Or would he wander forever, searching for a place to call home? I was suddenly interrupted by the gentle chime of my phone, a text. I reached for the device. There was his name – Marlon.

Marlon was a guy I had kept bumping into at the gym, a couple of years after Kelly and I split up. When I met him, I didn't even know if I wanted anything sexual with him. He was a funny, cool guy, friendly, and he seemed to like me. But I didn't even know if I could ever act on the feelings I had for other men. Because I had a child with a woman, the world also accepted me as straight now. Sure, I am not the most macho guy in the world, but the world just shrugs and goes, look, you have a kid!

But there was no doubt about it: Marlon was a man. Six-feet-four, with a weightlifter body, masculine, caring, no-nonsense, from an ordinary background in Georgia, he had set up successful businesses in Atlanta and then in New York.

Eventually, one day, when we were alone in the locker room, we were talking, and my eyes were running – very briefly – over his huge shoulders and biceps. He said my name, and I looked into his eyes, and then he kissed me. It was one of the most exciting, intoxicating moments of my life.

He asked me to go back to his apartment, and I went, and we ended up having sex. It was the first time another man had penetrated me. I had done nothing more than a bit of kissing and fumbling at college parties before. And with him, being fucked by him was, well, you know…sex with a man. As real a man as I could ever want… It had been an amazing experience, and I had known then that that was what I wanted, truly, deeply.

I didn't know if Marlon would want something more serious with me, and we had sex a few times and started to hang out a bit. Then one day, we had been walking up East Twelfth Street, going for a stroll together after the gym, possibly thinking of going home and making love. I think we were going for a coffee first.

We were in a totally cool, no-bigots kind of area of Manhattan, and quite idly, he had tried to catch my hand. And instinctively, ashamed of being seen as gay by people who would have liked nothing more than to smile at a cute gay couple, I pulled my hand from his.

He looked at me, both hard and hurt.

"Bru, take my hand."

But I just couldn't. I was too ashamed.

"I…"

My voice faltered and fell away, and he gave me a small, sad smile.

"I don't think I can keep seeing you, if you're not in this place."

So, all this time later, I opened his message:

HEY brUNO, IT'S BEEN A WHILE. ARE YOU FREE TO CHAT?

HEY MARLON, YEAH, I'M FREE. WHAT'S UP?

I JUST WANTED TO CHECK IN. HOW HAVE YOU BEEN?

I'VE BEEN OK, JUST DEALING WITH SOME STUFF. HOW ABOUT YOU?

HANGING IN THERE. LISTEN, I WANTED TO TALK TO YOU ABOUT SOMETHING IMPORTANT.

I paused. What might that mean?

SURE, WHAT'S ON YOUR MIND?

CAN I CALL NOW?

As I awaited Marlon's response, I wondered what he was calling me about. Was he going to ask me something about us? Was he going to say that we should give it another shot? I knew that Marlon had been my chance to have a normal gay relationship, and I had chickened out. I had stayed in the straight world ever since, except without any heterosexual sex at all!

I felt a knot of nerves in my stomach. The screen lit up with Marlon's name. The shrill ring of the phone came a fraction of a second later. I pressed Answer.

"Hello?" I said, my voice betraying a hint of trepidation.

"Hey, Bruno," Marlon's voice came through the line, soft, deep, and reassuring. "How are you doing?"

"I'm…I'm okay," I replied. "Just trying to take things one day at a time, you know?"

"All good with you? You don't sound very certain about life."

I laughed.

"Oh, you know, work. Evan is moving in full-time for a while. Kelly is moving to London for work for a while."

Huh, he went, more to himself more than me.

"Don't let her take advantage."

"How do you mean?" I asked.

He laughed again.

"You know exactly what I mean." Marlon's voice was a soothing balm, but in truth, he saw through me so much and saw what I really felt and meant. It had been wonderful when we were together, but now that we were apart, it was unnerving to have someone who knew you well, saw straight through you, and saw your feelings for what they were.

We chatted for almost ten minutes when suddenly, he said, "So I have something to tell you, that's what I'm calling."

"Sure," I replied.

I braced myself for whatever was about to come, my heart suddenly pounding in my chest. In the space between us, the unspoken weight of our past loomed large.

"I'm seeing someone," he said abruptly.

I paused a moment, just taking it in.

"Oh, okay."

"And…it's gotten serious, Bruno. We're moving in together."

"Oh, wow," I said.

"I didn't want you to find out from someone else."

Of course, I forced a semblance of composure. I had no claim on Marlon at all. So what if ever since we briefly were an item, when I masturbated, I closed my eyes and thought of him? That meant nothing. Right?

"That's…that's great, Marlon," I replied, the words tasting bitter on my tongue. "I'm happy for you."

Some warm tone entered his voice.

"Man, you're so cool."

Am I? I thought. I don't feel very cool. I feel like an idiot who has hung on to the possibility of something that was not there at all. I hung on to it because, in truth, the idea of putting myself back out there with another man or woman seemed so scary.

"No, Marlon, you deserve happiness."

"You're such a great guy. You deserve happiness, too."

For a moment, I was lost in the depths of my own turmoil, grappling with that bitter sting. A hollow ache settled in the pit of my stomach: I would have to move on, not just from Marlon, not just from Kelly, but from this place of being stuck, of being totally closed off to relationships. But then again, what a perfect time for your five-year-old kid to move in full-time!

"I…I have to go, Marlon," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. "Take care of yourself."

"Let's meet for a coffee one day or a glass of wine."

"Yeah, sure, sure."

I ended the call and sat there staring into space. I suppose I should have redownloaded Tinder or Grindr or whatever and got myself out there. Instead, I just kept staring into space, thinking it all over, to no particular end, until suddenly, I leaped to my feet and checked the time on my phone, still in my hand.

"Shit! Evan!" I cried.

The subway car rattled and swayed along the tracks, carrying me uptown to Evan's school. The rhythmic clatter of the train echoed in my mind. In the brightly lit confines of the subway car, I found myself surrounded by faces – strangers bound together by city life but each lost in their own thoughts.

Maybe all of us felt alone in that moment. Our grey, sullen faces sure suggested it. But I watched people checking texts, WhatsApp, and social media messages, and now and then, smiles flickered on faces, and eyes glowed. Maybe not everyone was alone, then. Maybe everyone else was in love, in fact. I was twenty-eight. I would be thirty before I knew it. I had a five-year-old son to care for full-time now. It was time to grow up and stop staring around subway trains, looking for meaning.

As I emerged from the subway station and walked to Evan's school, the warmth of the sun hit me, a golden glow all over the bustling, pristine uptown streets, pretty different from the Lower East Side noise and grime. Waiting at the school gates, I took a moment to savor the glow. I closed my eyes, allowing the sun's rays to caress my skin. It felt good. I felt good, in that moment.

"The sun's finally out," a voice came at me. I opened my eyes. It was Annie, a fellow parent from Evan's school, who stood nearby.

I smiled in greeting.

"It's a beautiful day."

Annie nodded in agreement.

"Oh, absolutely! Perfect weather for the kids being outdoors," Annie replied with a chuckle, adjusting her bag. "Mine will be nagging me to go to the playground."

I laughed.

"These modern kids, always wanting to be outside and not inside, watching their iPads."

Annie nodded enthusiastically.

"Not like in our day!"

We laughed together just as the kids in the school were being let out. A wall of noise swept the air as they shouted and yelled and called to one another and to their parents.

"Daddy!" Evan's voice rang out, filling the air with pure joy as he rushed toward me.

"Hey there, buddy," I called back, my voice bright with affection. "Ready to head home?"

Evan nodded eagerly, his eyes dancing with excitement.

"Yes, Daddy!" he exclaimed, his enthusiasm infectious.

He held up a picture he had painted. I asked him what it was, and he said it was me and him in an airplane. Two stick figures, one huge, one tiny, sat together in an open-topped plane, with propellers. How long since planes had propellers?

As we walked, Evan animatedly recounted his day at school, painting a vivid picture of wild adventures and risky escapades. He was a real boy's boy, all energy and mischief.

"I wish you could pick me up every day," Evan said apropos of nothing. I hadn't told him yet that soon enough, I would have to.

"Would you like that, buddy?"

"Yeah," he said.

A small smile playing on his lips, my son looked happy. In Evan's laughter and boundless energy, I found comfort and love, a reminder of the unbreakable bond that united us. But there are different kinds of love, of course, and your kids can't give you everything.

Some kinds of love have to come from another adult who wants to make you happy because they have chosen to love you.