30. JACK

Eventually, I found my way back to the apartment. The weight of the last twenty-four hours had sat heavily upon my shoulders, but I felt good.

Traveling up in the elevator, I stared at myself in the dim reflection of the metallic doors. What kind of man was I? I was a man who wanted love, who wanted trust, who wanted to feel that astonishing connection with another person. I knew that part of me just wanted to tell Paul that maybe I loved him, too.

I had a flash of an image in my head: he and I making love, me deeply inside him, close to ejaculation, gazing into each other’s eyes, stealing kisses, and then I would tell him. That would be the moment.

“I love you, Paul… I love you… I love y…”

Would that secure our future? I met a man and fell in love; it was a simple kind of story. This didn’t feel simple at all, but it did feel like something I had to do.

The elevator doorbell dinged, and I walked down the pale-lit corridor to our apartment. Unlocking the door, I was aware of the strange stillness of a space that had not seen human movement for several hours.

Paul was not there. I looked at my phone. There was a text.

With William and Laura in Soho Sq

I typed back:

Cool, have fun – home now

I watched him briefly come online and then go off again without responding.

I was tired from a long day and decided to rest before Paul came home. I kicked off my shoes, took off my jacket and tie, unbuttoned my trousers, and lay on the bed. I was going to rest my eyes for ten minutes.

I didn’t know how long I was actually asleep.

***

When I woke up, I knew at once it was much further into the evening. There were lights on in the apartment, and a TV news channel – an American one, CNN maybe – burbled in the background. Getting up from the bed, I walked into the living room.

There, on the couch, Paul sat, apparently lost in the pages of a book. In the soft glow of the lamplight, Paul’s features took on an ethereal quality. He was all soft colors and slim lines, like some watercolor portrait of a young man reading on a summer’s day.

“Hey,” I said.

I looked up at me and smiled.

“Hey.” He grinned.

“You buy a book?”

He showed me the cover. It looked like some kind of crime novel, one of the clever, intelligent ones.

“I went to Foyles.”

“That huge bookstore on Charing Cross Road?”

“Yeah.”

“Did you have fun with William and Laura?”

“We sat in Soho Square, and we drank gin-in-a-tin.”

“What’s that?”

He shrugged and looked back at the book. He seemed in a strange, distracted mood.

“It’s a can of premixed cocktail.”

I laughed.

“Did you get drunk and impulse-buy books?”

He shook his head.

“No, we only had one. William was going to Foyles, so I went with him.”

“You get on well with him?” I asked.

He shrugged and looked back up at me.

“Yeah, I guess we’re kind of friends.”

“Kind of?”

His eyes held mine for a moment, and it felt meaningful.

“For as long as this lasts.”

He said it in a sharp way that surprised me. I had never heard him speak like that before. We gazed at each other a moment, but nothing else was said. “Long day?” he asked.

I nodded.

“Yeah, you could say that,” I replied. “Maybe exhausting is a better word.”

“Anything you want to tell me about?”

I shook my head. I didn’t want to tell him at all, about Emma.

“Not really.”

He smiled thinly and started flicking through the pages of his book again. As I stood there, lost in my thoughts, I watched him.

“Hey, how about grabbing a bite?” I asked.

I thought he would jump at the chance, but his response was cool.

“Uh, do you want to go out?”

“Well, we don’t have to.”

He held his book up.

“I’m getting into this.”

“Oh, okay. No problem.” But Paul’s response was so neutral, his attention so not on me or us. “Is everything all right, Paul?”

Paul’s eyes were on mine, and I could see that something was not all right.

“Jack, can I ask you something? About something I heard?”

“Sure,” I said.

He gazed at me for a long time. I could see on his face the question that was in him, how it churned within him. I began to wonder what he was about to say, to fear it slightly, in fact.

“Is it true about you having an affair with a work colleague in Chicago?”

“What?”

“Is it true about you having an affair with a work colleague in Chicago?”

He repeated the question so calmly.

“Who told you that?”

“It doesn’t matter,” he said. “Is it true?”

“No, Paul,” I said in some disbelief. “It’s not true.” His eyes kept peering at me. He looked utterly unreassured. “Who told you that?” I asked again.

“It doesn’t matter who,” he said. “Someone told me.”

I guessed it was William or Laura, but it didn’t matter.

“It’s not true,” I said. He didn’t look at all convinced. “I swear to you, Paul,” I continued, “there was nothing between us. It was just this guy I worked with closely.”

“So there is something to it?” he asked bitterly.

“No, nothing sexual,” I insisted. “You are the only guy I have ever been with.”

As I uttered the words, I could sense the gravity of the situation sinking in. Not only was I having to defend myself to Paul, but someone out there was spreading this rumor around. “Do you believe me?” I asked. He did not reply at first. “Do you?”

Then he relented.

“Yes.”

But I didn’t believe him. I didn’t believe him that he believed in me.