7. DANNY

As I stepped out of the terminal, I hailed a yellow cab at the taxi rank. I slid into the backseat, my anticipation palpable as I relayed the address to the driver. "Avenue C, please," I said. The driver nodded, a faint smile playing at the corners of his lips as if he knew something I didn't. I was wearing my business suit, with just a thin, open-necked shirt underneath it. Was that what made him smile?

As the cab merged onto the highway, the fringe of New York unfolded before me. The summer sun bathed the streets in a golden glow as the taxi headed up toward the hinterland between Brooklyn and Queens, Manhattan in the distance still.

The journey from JFK Airport to Avenue C in Lower Manhattan showed New York in its perpetual motion. Everywhere, there were people on an unfathomable scale. Every one of those people was real, with a life of their own, walking in every direction.

Neighborhoods merged and changed, some areas filled with Jamaican and African restaurants, and then streets lined with old Italian delis, or Jewish ones, along which old ladies walked tiny dogs as they must have done for decades. Then there were hordes of students and arty types hanging out in the middle of the day, apparently not having to be in an office nine till five.

Endlessly, seamlessly, the city pulsated with life. We passed through neighborhoods that seemed to blur together and yet always seemed to change, too, a mosaic of cultures. I had forgotten that I liked this about New York. I liked it a lot.

The cab went straight across Brooklyn Bridge, and suddenly, Manhattan in all its glory was before me, that jagged landscape of metal-and-glass skyscrapers twinkling and glinting in the sunshine. On the Manhattan side, the knot of interconnecting roads feeding off into different parts of the island took us through to the Lower East Side.

As we drove along Avenue C toward the address Bruno had given me, a sense of anticipation welled up inside me. It was as if the city itself was whispering to me, I am going to be great, you were wrong, Danny West, you are going to fall in love with me.

As the cab slowed to a stop outside a row of unremarkable stores and eating places with shabby-fronted apartments above, I texted Bruno.

I THINK I AM HERE

My phone beeped back:

COOL

I stepped out of the cab onto bustling Avenue C, with people everywhere, all types. The address Bruno provided was above what looked like a hipster café, the aroma of freshly brewed coffee mingling with the city air. But right next door was a hardware store that looked like it had been there a hundred years.

Going up to the front door of the building, I pressed the buzzer, the sound echoing around me. A moment later, I heard Bruno's voice crackle through the intercom.

"Danny, is that you?"

"Oh, my God, is it so dangerous around here that you have to check in the middle of the afternoon?"

He laughed.

"Come on in. Third floor."

The door buzzed, and I pushed it open. Inside was a featureless corridor, no lobby or reception, just a long, winding staircase in the distant gloom. And then I realized the awful truth: he had no elevator!

Ascending the stairs to the third floor, I couldn't help but feel a twinge of surprise at the exertion it took. Despite my athleticism, the climb seemed to knock me out and make me breathless. My building has elevators – four of them! But I knew there were probably little old ladies on the fifth floor who climbed up and down every day with no problems, and would leave me for dead!

Reaching the third floor, I found myself face-to-face with Bruno, who stood at the open doorway of the apartment. As our eyes met, I felt a wave of nerves wash over me. It surprised me.

He stood there in the doorway, his figure slim and uncertain. Seeing him like this, I couldn't help but notice how boyish he appeared, even more so than when we had FaceTimed. It was as if time had frozen him in his high school days. At about five foot ten, he was shorter than me, but he was not short; he had a light, willowy presence. A window was behind him, and his blond hair was caught in the hazy sunlight like a golden halo. His nervous smile showed that he was uncertain, too. His big blue eyes were on me, sweet, innocent almost.

Despite the years that had passed, Bruno hadn't changed much, still retaining that boyish charm. His nervous energy was endearing, and I found myself drawn to him in a way I couldn't quite explain.

As I stepped into the apartment, I slipped off my suit jacket, stripping down to the fitted shirt I had on underneath. Bruno's eyes flickered over my form.

"Jeez, Danny, you're really ripped," he said. "How often do you go to the gym?"

I chuckled lightly, feeling a flush of pride at his comment.

"About eight days a week," I joked. "Nah! Just enough to stay in shape, you know."

Bruno flashed a grin, his blue eyes bright. "That's impressive, man. I should hit the gym more often myself. I just pull on my sneakers and run."

I shrugged as he pointed the way into the apartment's heart.

"That's why you're so slim, I guess."

He sighed.

"I'd like to be buff, man, but my body, it's the same as when I was eighteen."

I laughed.

"Most people would kill to say that."

"But look at you, you're like a superhero."

I shook my head.

"Dude…"

The corridor opened into an open-plan living room and kitchen, nothing fancy but nicely kept. A big couch sat in front of a TV. There were kids' toys here and there, kind of pushed into piles. In the corner of the room, under one of the high windows, sat a desk with a laptop on it. I could see a Word document open and lines and lines of text. I was so impressed that he was a writer.

"So, how's Evan?" I asked.

"He's good. Growing up so fast, you wouldn't believe it." He laughed to himself. "Well, of course you've never met him, but you know what I mean."

I nodded.

"I bet. Kids have a way of keeping us on our toes."

Huh, he went.

"Evan is more a fireball than a bundle of fun, if you know what I mean."

I laughed. That sounded great. Our conversation flowed really easily. It surprised me, given we were never really friends. We talked about people we each knew and what they were up to now. We had run with different crowds and sometimes struggled to remember the right person, but it was fun all the same, hearing about the lives that this person or that had gone off to.

"But look at you, man. A writer! In New York! You're the fanciest guy of all."

He turned to look at me as if I was crazy.

"Says the super-successful architect to the freelance journalist."

Bruno busied himself with a coffee machine, pouring ground coffee into the basket of an espresso maker. I took the opportunity to glance around the apartment, taking in the cozy surroundings. It was modest but nice, and through two open doors, I could see one large bedroom and one smaller one.

"You can have the small room," he said casually, screwing up the coffeepot. "Evan and I will take the bigger one."

I felt a pang of guilt.

"Man, am I taking a kid's bedroom off him?"

Bruno laughed happily. He had a really nice, warm laugh.

"Danny, he's bursting with excitement at the idea of me and him sharing a room. He asked if we could share it on the nights you're not here."

"I don't mind him going back into the small room when I'm not here," I said. "As long as I can have a corner to dump some stuff in."

He looked at me, looked grateful, but I was an easygoing guy, no airs, no graces.

"That's great. What do you need to leave?"

"Would be great just to leave a suit and some shirts here, maybe. Some clean socks and underwear. A pair of jeans. I can just send them out to be cleaned when I leave and pick them up the day I come back, and then I don't need to carry them back and forth on the plane."

He nodded. The coffee was on the stove now, and he turned to face me fully.

"I actually have a washing machine here, though. I can do some stuff for you."

"Nah, man," I said. "No need to do my stuff for me. Don't go out of your way."

He arched an eyebrow.

"Bro, you're giving me five hundred reasons a week to go out of my way."

"Ha," I said. "Let's see how it goes. I am happy to just drop it off at a dry cleaner as I come and go."

I saw that Bruno was making space for me in his home, and I couldn't help but wonder if I was imposing on him too much, no matter the money. Yet, despite my reservations, there was a warmth in Bruno's gesture that made me feel so welcome.

Our conversation shifted to Evan's impending move. He admitted, with a hint of vulnerability,

"It's going to be a big change, having Evan here permanently. But I'm happy about it, you know?"

I nodded sympathetically.

"It'll definitely be an adjustment," I said. "But it'll be cool. I would have loved to have had a dad like you, man."

Bruno smiled, and I didn't know if he remembered quite how dysfunctional my home life had been, that my dad had skipped out when I was young. We were never close; there was no reason why he should.

"I hope so," he said. "It's just…the money's tight, you know? With everything going on."

I furrowed my brow, puzzled.

"Isn't Kelly giving you more money to help with the costs if she isn't going to be looking after him at all?"

A shadow passed over Bruno's face, and he hesitated before replying.

"I don't want to badmouth Kelly, but she's good at taking money, not so good at giving it."

"Meaning?"

"She hasn't mentioned anything about money when she's in London."

I nodded in understanding, not wanting to make him feel awkward about anything that was absolutely not my business.

"That sounds tough," I sympathized. "But you'll be good. And you have me to pitch in a bit here."

"Yeah, I'm grateful for the extra cash," he said.

I hadn't meant that.

"Oh, I mean with Evan, an extra pair of hands."

He looked at me a moment, then smiled very warmly. "Wow, that's so cool of you, Danny." He paused. "Wow…"

The espresso maker started whistling, and he rattled cups and got milk out of his refrigerator. He poured some into each of the coffees and handed me mine.

"Would you consider moving closer to his school?" I asked.

Bruno shook his head and blew on his coffee to cool it down.

"I wouldn't have a hope in hell of affording an apartment uptown," he said. "I'm barely holding on in Manhattan here as it is. We'll just have to do the subway every day."

"What about Kelly's place?"

"She's subletting it to cover the rent. Even though her company is renting her an apartment in London." I could not help but arch my eyebrow. "I know!" he groaned.

"I mean, she really is thinking of her problems first."

He shrugged.

"Like I say, I don't like to badmouth her. It just feels…counterproductive."

I just nodded. He indicated that we should sit, and we settled down on the couch. Bruno carefully placed his coffee on the table in front of us, and I held on to mine.

As we sat side by side, there was a quiet moment of shared contemplation. It charged with a strange energy, and Bruno's words broke the silence.

"This is so weird," he confessed.

"Why?"

"Because I never imagined I would see you again," he said, his eyes meeting mine.

I took a sip of the coffee.

"Well, here I am," I said with a half-smile.

Bruno chuckled, his gaze fixed on some invisible point in the distance. Our eyes met again, and there was an unspoken understanding that the passage of time had softened our high school history. As we sat there, sipping coffee in Bruno's apartment, it didn't seem to matter anymore anyhow.

"You were actually always nice to me, though," he said.

"Nice?"

"Yeah, always cool. You always looked at whatever I was reading."

"Oh, man, I thought it was so cool," I said.

He looked confused.

"What?"

"You just didn't care. You were just yourself. Me, I was crazy to fit in, to be one of the guys."

He seemed surprised.

"You?"

"God, yeah," I confessed. "I was desperate to be one of the guys, but you, you just marched to your own drumbeat, reading books, dressing how you liked, not caring what people thought."

"Oh!" he went. "Oh, I cared. There was just nothing I could do to fit in with all you football guys."

"Football?" I scoffed, but I saw that he was being serious.

"Man, isn't it funny? You thought I was cool, and I thought you were cool." Ha, he went to himself, looking out into the mid-distance. "Isn't it funny how we never really understand each other?"

"You and me, you mean?" I asked.

He shook his head.

"No, just people."

Despite the warm atmosphere, a wave of discomfort washed over me. Bruno's candid summation stirred something within me, a vague remorse. Plus, I wanted to understand someone; that one person. Don't we all?

"Yeah," I replied. "I guess there's a lot I didn't understand back then."

The thing is this. I am mostly straight – maybe wholly straight – but now and then, I have looked at gay porn. I had always felt a charge from those occasions like that brief encounter in the locker room a few days before. It wasn't like I'd never thought about it. It wasn't like I didn't think about it back then, when I was an unhappy teenager. But the weird thing is, thinking about it in that vague way was the worst thing.

I was ashamed to say it now, but my biggest fear back then was that someone might say what they said about Bruno Burgess about me. Like I said, I am straight. But the deep fear of lots of men is that one day, "the guys" will say it about you. So you do your best to make sure they don't.

Bruno glanced at me, his expression unreadable. As we sat there, in an unexpected, quiet intimacy, I couldn't help but wonder if Bruno sensed anything of that. Probably not; I had never told a soul about it, in truth. Bruno asked me about "the woman" I had gone on a date with. I had forgotten we had FaceTimed the night of my unsuccessful drink with Rachel.

"It was…okay, I guess," I began. "We met up at this bar back home, downtown, but things just didn't click, you know?"

Bruno nodded. "What happened?"

I shrugged. "I don't know, really. She was nice and all, but it just felt…she was looking for someone to be in a relationship with, and that was not me."

"You don't want a relationship?" he asked.

I laughed.

"Maybe just not with her."

He nodded.

"I get it."

"I wish I got it," I joked, a little bleakly.

"Yeah, dating can be tough," he said, his voice tinged with empathy. "But hey, at least you gave it a shot, right?"

I offered a half-hearted smile in response, then drank the last of my coffee and set the empty cup down on the table before us. I raised my right hand, displaying the palm in a self-deprecating gesture.

"And this," I quipped, a wry smile playing at the corners of my lips, "this is my girlfriend for now."

His eyes met mine, widened, and then we both burst into laughter.

When our laughter subsided, replaced by tentative smiles, I offered a sheepish shrug. As I sat next to Bruno on the couch, I couldn't help but marvel at the passage of time. The boyish figure I once knew had evolved into a man, a father. My eyes ran over his, then to his thick, pale blond hair.

"Man, I can't believe we're almost thirty. You don't look any different at all."

"You do," he said.

"Oh, thanks!" I replied ironically.

"No, you look amazing, but you know, you look like a proper grown-up. You look like you got something going on. Me, I still look like a high school student, probably."

"Nah!" I went, although actually he did a bit. As I gazed into Bruno's eyes, trading a smile, I found myself captivated by what he was doing with his life. I couldn't shake the curiosity burning within me about Bruno's novel.

"Come on, Bru, spill the beans about your novel," I said eventually, a mischievous grin playing on my lips.

"Ah, no!" he went. He was being modest, I knew. Undeterred, I pressed on.

"Aw, come on, dude, you can't leave me hanging like this," I protested, my tone infused with a playful insistence.

"It's called A Place to Stay," he said. "It's about a young man looking for love, I suppose, but more than that, looking for a place to belong."

"Emotionally as well as physically?"

His eyes fixed on me, glowed a little.

"Yeah, precisely. It's a story of resilience and redemption, of finding solace in the most unexpected of places," he said. "But above all, it's a story of hope, of holding onto the belief that even in the darkest of times, there's always a place for us."

"Nice," I said.

He groaned.

"You see, it sounds dumb."

I shook my head.

"No," I said. "It sounds great. Isn't that what everyone wants?" I leaned back on the couch. "Dude, I'd love to read your novel. Seriously."

He hesitated, uncertainty flickering across his features. "I don't know, Danny. It's not really ready for others to read yet."

I waved off his concerns.

"Come on, you're being too modest. I'm sure it's brilliant."

Bruno's lips curled into a hesitant smile. "I appreciate that. But it's not quite there yet."

I let it go.

"Cool," I said. "I can wait."

He thanked me. He began to tell me he had a literary agent who was somewhat interested, but he had to do a big rewrite on it to get it ready before he approached her again. I listened to him, and I, who lots of people saw as a big shot, felt very small.

"I can't believe it, you know?" I said.

"What?" he asked.

"You're out here living the dream – downtown Manhattan, writing a novel, living life on your terms. Meanwhile, I've been stuck in this corporate grind, trying to shimmy up the ladder."

His gaze softened, sympathy in his eyes.

"But if that's what you want… You've achieved so much."

I shrugged.

"Maybe. But there's something about your life, man. It's inspiring. I admire you, Bru. I really do."

A flush of color rose to Bruno's cheeks very charmingly.

"Thanks," he said softly. "That means a lot. It's hard to hold on to your determination sometimes, especially when it's not really obviously working out."

I nodded emphatically.

"And I mean it when I say I want to read your novel. Whenever you're ready to let me in."

His eyes widened as I said the words. I was looking at his face, the delicate curve of his lips, the captivating depth of his blue eyes. I suddenly felt quite compelled toward him. Just for a second, I wondered what it would be like to kiss those lips.

The idea of kissing another man felt like such uncharted territory, scary, in fact, something that clashed with the image I held of myself. And yet, at that moment, however briefly, I wanted it. Then I stopped myself. What was I thinking about, even? There was no way I was kissing Bruno Burgess.

There was no way I was kissing any man!