"Queer Identities" -- Chapter 58 "I Do Not Want What I Haven't Got"
Oh, Justin...
This is Chapter 58 in the "Queer Identities" series.
The narrator is Justin Taylor, and features Dean Armstrong, Ethan Gold, Jennifer Taylor, Molly Taylor.
Rated R and contains no warnings or spoilers.
Summary: Be careful of what you want. Pittsburgh, September 2003.
Disclaimer: You know the drill. This is for fun, not profit. Enjoy.
Most recent "QI" chapters here:
Ch. 55 "Idol"
http://gaedhal.livejournal.com/403894.html
Ch. 56 "It's Not Easy Being Green"
http://gaedhal.livejournal.com/406452.html
Ch. 57 "Indiscreet"
http://gaedhal.livejournal.com/410071.html
By Gaedhal
"I'm walking through the desert
And I am not frightened although it's hot,
I have all that I requested,
And I do not want what I haven't got.
I have learned this from my mother,
See how happy she has made me,
I will take this road much further,
Though I know not where it takes me.
I have water for my journey,
I have bread and I have wine,
No longer will I be hungry
For the bread of life is mine.
I saw a navy blue bird
Flying way above the sea,
I walked on and I learned later
That this navy blue bird was me.
I returned a paler blue bird
And this is the advice they gave me:
'You must not try to be too pure,
You must fly closer to the sea...'"
***
"So, Mr. Taylor, you have been doing quite well here."
"Yes, Dean Armstrong."
"Are you happy with your course of work?"
"Yes, Dean Armstrong, very happy."
"Any problems with your hand?"
"Occasionally. But I've been doing some exercises my physical therapist gave me and that helps. And also using my computer when my hand gets tired."
"You have excellent reports from your professors. Professor Minton says your multi-media work is exemplary."
"Yes, Dean Armstrong. Thank you. I love Professor Minton's classes."
He takes off his glasses and stares at me. "So why do you want to transfer? Do you think the program at Cal Arts it that much better than what we offer here at PIFA?"
"Oh, no. PIFA is great. Everything here is wonderful. But... it's... personal."
That's an understatement. But how can I get him to understand? He's an old straight guy.
"Personal?"
Here goes.
"My partner lives in Los Angeles most of the time and... I want to be closer to him. Cal Arts is in L.A. It's as simple as that."
The dean's expression is sour. "But it's not so simple, Mr. Taylor. PIFA offers an integrated program that lasts four years. To get the full benefit of it, you need to progress through the entire curriculum. This is not a community college, where you can pop in and out, picking and choosing whatever you want to take. This is a serious arts institution."
"I know." The last thing I want to do is piss this guy off. I need him to write me a recommendation in order to get into Cal Arts.
"You realize that if you do get into Cal Arts, which is by no means certain, that you might not be able to enroll until next fall? That's an entire year. You'll be a senior and may have to extend your education in order to fulfill their requirements. And things may well change in your personal life between now and then."
In other words, Brian and I might not be together. He thinks.
"I know. But nothing is a sure thing, sir. I'm hoping that if I can get everything together in time, I might be able to start there in January. If... if you'll write me a recommendation."
He sniffs and puts his glasses back on. "I'll consider it, Mr. Taylor. But I think you are making a mistake."
No shit, Dean Armstrong. The mistake I made was not doing this a year ago.
He picks up my folder and closes it. He's done with me.
E. is waiting outside the office. "Well? What did he say?"
"He blew me off."
We walk out of the building in silence. It's sunny and the campus looks idyllic. Some girls are practicing dance moves on the grass, while a boy plays the guitar. A dog runs by, a Frisbee in his mouth. Three other students are sketching a statue in the corner of the Quad. I can hear the sound of strings coming from the Music Building. College. A perfect scene.
But I don't want it.
E. walks along with me, smiling slightly. He tries to slip his hand into mine, but I shake it off. I told him that I don't like to hold hands. I also told him that I don't really like to kiss or hug or cuddle, especially in public.
He knows it's a lie.
I love doing all those things. But with Brian, not with this guy. I mean, I know I'm using Ethan. And he knows it, too. That makes me feel like shit. But he's using me, too. I know he's still pining for Dylan -- and I know he's always calling him, even after Dylan told him to get lost.
Ethan's not the one I want. But he's better than nothing. Better than tricking with random guys. And it looks like I'm not going to be leaving the Pitts any time soon, so I have to stop wanting what I don't have. What I can't have.
Suck it up, Taylor.
"You want to get some coffee at the Student Union, J.?" he asks.
"Sure, E.," I reply. "Why the fuck not?"
I'd rather have a shot of Absolut. I'd rather have a toke. I'd rather have Brian here, next to me. Walking with me. Kissing me. Holding my hand.
But what does the song say? I do not want what I haven't got.
That's my new mantra. My new philosophy.
And, apparently, it's also Brian's.
***
"Sweetheart! This is a pleasant surprise!"
My mom is glad to see me. I don't come over all that often. I know she's busy with her real estate stuff, and Molly, and some guy she's dating, so I don't like to bug her with my problems. But the truth is that... I'm lonely. Daphne is studying abroad this year, and Gwen and Rhonette have their own friends now, dance majors I don't really know. Wade is off at school in Philadelphia. And I would call Marshall, but he's studying in Strasbourg this semester.
And Dylan... I don't want to go there.
No wonder I'm spending so much time with E.
But it's all good. Now I have a lot of time to work on my projects. I have a ton of ideas and now I have the time to work them out. And then there are my classes. And... other stuff. So much other stuff.
Busy, busy, busy, as Emmett would say.
Ethan took me to a party the other night. All music majors. They talked about people I've never heard of and things I don't know anything about. Composers. Orchestras. Musical techniques. Stories about competitions and teachers and instruments. I didn't get any of it. I just stood there, a fake smile plastered on my face. Whenever they asked me a question I nodded like a dope and mumbled something.
They all think I'm E.'s new boyfriend. And they all think I'm a complete idiot.
"You'll catch on," E. said later at his apartment. "I'll give you some CD's to listen to. Don't worry. I'll educate you."
"I wasn't worried."
And I don't need educating.
E.'s place is, to put it bluntly, a shithole. It's in a crummy part of town and the building is falling down. I know I shouldn't judge, because E.'s on scholarship and doesn't have a lot of money, but his apartment is also filthy. I guess I'm a spoiled rich brat because that really bothers me. I know Brian didn't have much money when he started out, but I can't see him ever living in squalor. I know he had a tiny apartment when he was first working at Ryder -- I've seen pictures of it -- but it was immaculate. He hardly had any furniture, but what few pieces he had were good -- and they were clean. E.'s place is just a mess -- dirty dishes everywhere, clothes scattered all over the floor, and a mattress that looks like something retrieved from a dumpster lying in the corner with an old sheet and blanket thrown over it. It all feels... sordid. Wrong.
Yet there I was.
"Why don't we ever spend the night at your place?" he asks.
It's a logical question. The loft is certainly like a palace compared to E's apartment, but it's a no-go. I never bring Ethan back to the loft. I can't. Not after what happened with Dylan. It doesn't feel right. Maybe Brian is bringing guys back to the house in Creekside Canyon, maybe he's taking them to the boat, maybe he's fucking every guy in L.A. in our bed -- and maybe he isn't. I don't know. But it doesn't matter what Brian is doing -- I can't do it.
I shake my head and don't answer Ethan. And I pretend I don't feel itchy and creeped out by that old mattress. Or that I sometimes feel creeped out by E. Because he's not the cleanest guy in the world, either.
And then there's his cat...
I sneeze. Hard.
"Goodness, Justin! Are you all right?" My mom gives me her concerned face. "Are you coming down with a cold?"
"Allergies," I say. "I was visiting a friend who has a cat and forgot to take my medication."
We sit in the kitchen and she pours me a huge glass of milk. Some things never change.
"So..." she says. "Have you heard from Brian?"
Good old Mom. She cuts right to the chase.
"Yeah." I don't volunteer that our conversation was in the middle of the night, Brian was high, and the entire thing lasted less than two minutes. "He was in Toronto, at the film festival there."
"That's right. I saw him on 'Entertainment Tonight' last week. On the red carpet for the new Woody Allen movie. I was going to mention it to you."
"Yeah, he's got a small part in that."
"Oh," she says, frowning. "They made it seem like he was a co-star." She's watching me closely. She's looking for my reaction. But I don't give her one. "He looked... good."
I shrug. "Brian always looks good." Even when he's fucked up, I don't add.
She changes the subject. "How's school?"
That's more like it. Typical meaningless Mom talk. "I saw Dean Armstrong about transferring to Cal Arts. He wasn't very encouraging."
She pats my hand. "He doesn't want to lose one of his best students."
"Whatever." I drink the milk. It's so cold it makes my teeth ache.
I can tell she's worried about me. She's always worried about me. But there's nothing to be worried about. Because I'm fine. Just fine.
"Why don't you come over for dinner on Sunday, honey? We're having roast chicken. Molly would love to see more of you."
The thought of a nice Sunday dinner is tempting. I used to love those family dinners. Of course, everything's changed now. I'm changed. And Dad isn't in the picture anymore. But Mom makes great chicken.
"With gravy? And real mashed potatoes?" I ask.
"Of course. And I bought some beautiful apples for a pie."
I think about it.
"Can I bring a friend?"
She looks surprised. "If you want to. There'll be plenty of food."
"Okay."
Now she's curious. "Is this someone I know?"
"No. He's a music student. His name is Ethan Gold."
And I'm fucking him, Mom.
Not that Brian would care. Not that anyone cares.
Not even me.
***
"This is such a lovely condo, Mrs. Taylor."
"Why, thank you, Ethan."
"Justin didn't tell me you were so young!"
"Oh, stop!" My mother giggles like a schoolgirl.
E. is turning on his charm. I admit that he can really turn it on when he wants to. He told me you have to do it if you want to get ahead in music. There are almost as many people to schmooze as in the movie business -- agents and bookers and conductors and people who run the orchestras and their boards of directors. "And," E. told me. "A lot of older rich ladies who give money to the symphony and the music schools. They really like it when you lay it on thick. But you have to if you want them to give you a scholarship -- or a job!"
Yeah, he even washed his hair for the occasion. Like I say, serious schmoozing.
"Justin tells me that you're a music student."
"Yes." E. grins. There's one thing he loves to talk about and that's himself and his music. "I'm a violin major, although I also play the cello and the piano. I've been studying since I was six years old."
"Six!" Molly makes a face. "I take piano lessons and I hate it!"
"Oh, Molly!" sighs Mom.
"I live for my music," E. says grandly.
I pray he doesn't start telling the story about his grandfather and World War II. I hold my breath, but he doesn't. He's probably saving that for later. He told me that it's the one he pulls out to "seal the deal" when he's working the rich ladies.
"When I was your age I used to practice for five hours a day," he continues. "I gave my first recital when I was nine. I played Mendelssohn's Violin Concerto in E minor."
"That sounds wonderful!" Mom exclaims. "Perhaps we can hear you play sometime?"
And that's when he pulls a CD out of his bag and hands it to her. "I brought this for you, Mrs. Taylor. We can listen to it during dinner."
"Is this you?" Mom turns the CD over in her hand. E.'s face is on the cover, looking pained. I think he thought the picture was romantic, but it misses the mark.
"I've recorded a few CD's for a small label." Which is located in his apartment. A music production student recorded the music and then they pressed up the CD's and printed the inserts on his computer. He still has boxes of them in the corner. "Justin is going to do the cover art for my next release."
Oh. "I am?"
E. nudges me. "Remember? We talked about it the other night."
I must have been half asleep. "Oh, sure. The cover art. It'll be fun."
"I autographed it, too, Mrs. Taylor."
"Why, thank you, Ethan. I'll put it on right now."
Molly rolls her eyes.
"That was really laying it on thick," I whisper as we go into the dining room.
"I want to be invited back," E. smirks. "No skin off my ass. And your mom is nice. Next time I have a recital, I'll send her a couple of tickets."
"What about me?" I wrinkle my nose at him.
"You'll be in the wings, J.," he says, batting his eyes coyly. "I need my Muse close by for inspiration."
His Muse.
Jesus.
Sometimes I wonder whether he really believes all this bullshit. It seems so. But then I'll catch an expression on his face that says it's all an act. I don't really know what to believe. But it's working on my mother, that's for sure.
The roast chicken is great. E. and I eat like a pair of starving vultures. I guess we've been living on pizza and bags of chips too long. I can't cook anything in E.'s disgusting kitchen and I don't feel like cooking when I'm alone in the loft. Mom refills our plates. There's nothing that makes a mother happier than watching people eat her food. Especially her son and his...
Shit.
I almost said boyfriend.
Get a grip, Taylor! Ethan Gold is NOT your fucking boyfriend!
He's not!
After we rampage through the apple pie, Mom serves coffee in the living room, while Molly goes upstairs.
"This is so nice," says my mother. "And your music is beautiful, Ethan."
"Thank you, Mrs. Taylor." And then he tells the story about his grandfather and the Nazis. Mom ends up in tears. Which was exactly what he intended.
"You're welcome back any time, Ethan," she says, ushering us to the door. "And thanks so much for the CD."
"That was swell," says Ethan as we walk out to the Jeep. "Your mom is a good cook." He stops me in the driveway. "Dinner was tasty, but the best is still to come. Right. J.?" And he leers at me. Then he kisses me.
My hand moves to my pocket, feeling for my cellphone.
I want to call Brian. But... I can't.
Brian's doing his thing. And I'm doing mine. We understand each other. If it's meant to be, then it will be. And if it's not...
Then I do not want what I haven't got.
Even if what I haven't got is Brian.
Only time will tell.
And in the meanwhile...
***
"So I'm walking through the desert
And I am not frightened although it's hot,
I have all that I requested,
And I do not want what I haven't got."
(Sinead O'Connor)
This is Chapter 58 in the "Queer Identities" series.
The narrator is Justin Taylor, and features Dean Armstrong, Ethan Gold, Jennifer Taylor, Molly Taylor.
Rated R and contains no warnings or spoilers.
Summary: Be careful of what you want. Pittsburgh, September 2003.
Disclaimer: You know the drill. This is for fun, not profit. Enjoy.
Most recent "QI" chapters here:
Ch. 55 "Idol"
http://gaedhal.livejournal.com/403894.html
Ch. 56 "It's Not Easy Being Green"
http://gaedhal.livejournal.com/406452.html
Ch. 57 "Indiscreet"
http://gaedhal.livejournal.com/410071.html
By Gaedhal
"I'm walking through the desert
And I am not frightened although it's hot,
I have all that I requested,
And I do not want what I haven't got.
I have learned this from my mother,
See how happy she has made me,
I will take this road much further,
Though I know not where it takes me.
I have water for my journey,
I have bread and I have wine,
No longer will I be hungry
For the bread of life is mine.
I saw a navy blue bird
Flying way above the sea,
I walked on and I learned later
That this navy blue bird was me.
I returned a paler blue bird
And this is the advice they gave me:
'You must not try to be too pure,
You must fly closer to the sea...'"
***
"So, Mr. Taylor, you have been doing quite well here."
"Yes, Dean Armstrong."
"Are you happy with your course of work?"
"Yes, Dean Armstrong, very happy."
"Any problems with your hand?"
"Occasionally. But I've been doing some exercises my physical therapist gave me and that helps. And also using my computer when my hand gets tired."
"You have excellent reports from your professors. Professor Minton says your multi-media work is exemplary."
"Yes, Dean Armstrong. Thank you. I love Professor Minton's classes."
He takes off his glasses and stares at me. "So why do you want to transfer? Do you think the program at Cal Arts it that much better than what we offer here at PIFA?"
"Oh, no. PIFA is great. Everything here is wonderful. But... it's... personal."
That's an understatement. But how can I get him to understand? He's an old straight guy.
"Personal?"
Here goes.
"My partner lives in Los Angeles most of the time and... I want to be closer to him. Cal Arts is in L.A. It's as simple as that."
The dean's expression is sour. "But it's not so simple, Mr. Taylor. PIFA offers an integrated program that lasts four years. To get the full benefit of it, you need to progress through the entire curriculum. This is not a community college, where you can pop in and out, picking and choosing whatever you want to take. This is a serious arts institution."
"I know." The last thing I want to do is piss this guy off. I need him to write me a recommendation in order to get into Cal Arts.
"You realize that if you do get into Cal Arts, which is by no means certain, that you might not be able to enroll until next fall? That's an entire year. You'll be a senior and may have to extend your education in order to fulfill their requirements. And things may well change in your personal life between now and then."
In other words, Brian and I might not be together. He thinks.
"I know. But nothing is a sure thing, sir. I'm hoping that if I can get everything together in time, I might be able to start there in January. If... if you'll write me a recommendation."
He sniffs and puts his glasses back on. "I'll consider it, Mr. Taylor. But I think you are making a mistake."
No shit, Dean Armstrong. The mistake I made was not doing this a year ago.
He picks up my folder and closes it. He's done with me.
E. is waiting outside the office. "Well? What did he say?"
"He blew me off."
We walk out of the building in silence. It's sunny and the campus looks idyllic. Some girls are practicing dance moves on the grass, while a boy plays the guitar. A dog runs by, a Frisbee in his mouth. Three other students are sketching a statue in the corner of the Quad. I can hear the sound of strings coming from the Music Building. College. A perfect scene.
But I don't want it.
E. walks along with me, smiling slightly. He tries to slip his hand into mine, but I shake it off. I told him that I don't like to hold hands. I also told him that I don't really like to kiss or hug or cuddle, especially in public.
He knows it's a lie.
I love doing all those things. But with Brian, not with this guy. I mean, I know I'm using Ethan. And he knows it, too. That makes me feel like shit. But he's using me, too. I know he's still pining for Dylan -- and I know he's always calling him, even after Dylan told him to get lost.
Ethan's not the one I want. But he's better than nothing. Better than tricking with random guys. And it looks like I'm not going to be leaving the Pitts any time soon, so I have to stop wanting what I don't have. What I can't have.
Suck it up, Taylor.
"You want to get some coffee at the Student Union, J.?" he asks.
"Sure, E.," I reply. "Why the fuck not?"
I'd rather have a shot of Absolut. I'd rather have a toke. I'd rather have Brian here, next to me. Walking with me. Kissing me. Holding my hand.
But what does the song say? I do not want what I haven't got.
That's my new mantra. My new philosophy.
And, apparently, it's also Brian's.
***
"Sweetheart! This is a pleasant surprise!"
My mom is glad to see me. I don't come over all that often. I know she's busy with her real estate stuff, and Molly, and some guy she's dating, so I don't like to bug her with my problems. But the truth is that... I'm lonely. Daphne is studying abroad this year, and Gwen and Rhonette have their own friends now, dance majors I don't really know. Wade is off at school in Philadelphia. And I would call Marshall, but he's studying in Strasbourg this semester.
And Dylan... I don't want to go there.
No wonder I'm spending so much time with E.
But it's all good. Now I have a lot of time to work on my projects. I have a ton of ideas and now I have the time to work them out. And then there are my classes. And... other stuff. So much other stuff.
Busy, busy, busy, as Emmett would say.
Ethan took me to a party the other night. All music majors. They talked about people I've never heard of and things I don't know anything about. Composers. Orchestras. Musical techniques. Stories about competitions and teachers and instruments. I didn't get any of it. I just stood there, a fake smile plastered on my face. Whenever they asked me a question I nodded like a dope and mumbled something.
They all think I'm E.'s new boyfriend. And they all think I'm a complete idiot.
"You'll catch on," E. said later at his apartment. "I'll give you some CD's to listen to. Don't worry. I'll educate you."
"I wasn't worried."
And I don't need educating.
E.'s place is, to put it bluntly, a shithole. It's in a crummy part of town and the building is falling down. I know I shouldn't judge, because E.'s on scholarship and doesn't have a lot of money, but his apartment is also filthy. I guess I'm a spoiled rich brat because that really bothers me. I know Brian didn't have much money when he started out, but I can't see him ever living in squalor. I know he had a tiny apartment when he was first working at Ryder -- I've seen pictures of it -- but it was immaculate. He hardly had any furniture, but what few pieces he had were good -- and they were clean. E.'s place is just a mess -- dirty dishes everywhere, clothes scattered all over the floor, and a mattress that looks like something retrieved from a dumpster lying in the corner with an old sheet and blanket thrown over it. It all feels... sordid. Wrong.
Yet there I was.
"Why don't we ever spend the night at your place?" he asks.
It's a logical question. The loft is certainly like a palace compared to E's apartment, but it's a no-go. I never bring Ethan back to the loft. I can't. Not after what happened with Dylan. It doesn't feel right. Maybe Brian is bringing guys back to the house in Creekside Canyon, maybe he's taking them to the boat, maybe he's fucking every guy in L.A. in our bed -- and maybe he isn't. I don't know. But it doesn't matter what Brian is doing -- I can't do it.
I shake my head and don't answer Ethan. And I pretend I don't feel itchy and creeped out by that old mattress. Or that I sometimes feel creeped out by E. Because he's not the cleanest guy in the world, either.
And then there's his cat...
I sneeze. Hard.
"Goodness, Justin! Are you all right?" My mom gives me her concerned face. "Are you coming down with a cold?"
"Allergies," I say. "I was visiting a friend who has a cat and forgot to take my medication."
We sit in the kitchen and she pours me a huge glass of milk. Some things never change.
"So..." she says. "Have you heard from Brian?"
Good old Mom. She cuts right to the chase.
"Yeah." I don't volunteer that our conversation was in the middle of the night, Brian was high, and the entire thing lasted less than two minutes. "He was in Toronto, at the film festival there."
"That's right. I saw him on 'Entertainment Tonight' last week. On the red carpet for the new Woody Allen movie. I was going to mention it to you."
"Yeah, he's got a small part in that."
"Oh," she says, frowning. "They made it seem like he was a co-star." She's watching me closely. She's looking for my reaction. But I don't give her one. "He looked... good."
I shrug. "Brian always looks good." Even when he's fucked up, I don't add.
She changes the subject. "How's school?"
That's more like it. Typical meaningless Mom talk. "I saw Dean Armstrong about transferring to Cal Arts. He wasn't very encouraging."
She pats my hand. "He doesn't want to lose one of his best students."
"Whatever." I drink the milk. It's so cold it makes my teeth ache.
I can tell she's worried about me. She's always worried about me. But there's nothing to be worried about. Because I'm fine. Just fine.
"Why don't you come over for dinner on Sunday, honey? We're having roast chicken. Molly would love to see more of you."
The thought of a nice Sunday dinner is tempting. I used to love those family dinners. Of course, everything's changed now. I'm changed. And Dad isn't in the picture anymore. But Mom makes great chicken.
"With gravy? And real mashed potatoes?" I ask.
"Of course. And I bought some beautiful apples for a pie."
I think about it.
"Can I bring a friend?"
She looks surprised. "If you want to. There'll be plenty of food."
"Okay."
Now she's curious. "Is this someone I know?"
"No. He's a music student. His name is Ethan Gold."
And I'm fucking him, Mom.
Not that Brian would care. Not that anyone cares.
Not even me.
***
"This is such a lovely condo, Mrs. Taylor."
"Why, thank you, Ethan."
"Justin didn't tell me you were so young!"
"Oh, stop!" My mother giggles like a schoolgirl.
E. is turning on his charm. I admit that he can really turn it on when he wants to. He told me you have to do it if you want to get ahead in music. There are almost as many people to schmooze as in the movie business -- agents and bookers and conductors and people who run the orchestras and their boards of directors. "And," E. told me. "A lot of older rich ladies who give money to the symphony and the music schools. They really like it when you lay it on thick. But you have to if you want them to give you a scholarship -- or a job!"
Yeah, he even washed his hair for the occasion. Like I say, serious schmoozing.
"Justin tells me that you're a music student."
"Yes." E. grins. There's one thing he loves to talk about and that's himself and his music. "I'm a violin major, although I also play the cello and the piano. I've been studying since I was six years old."
"Six!" Molly makes a face. "I take piano lessons and I hate it!"
"Oh, Molly!" sighs Mom.
"I live for my music," E. says grandly.
I pray he doesn't start telling the story about his grandfather and World War II. I hold my breath, but he doesn't. He's probably saving that for later. He told me that it's the one he pulls out to "seal the deal" when he's working the rich ladies.
"When I was your age I used to practice for five hours a day," he continues. "I gave my first recital when I was nine. I played Mendelssohn's Violin Concerto in E minor."
"That sounds wonderful!" Mom exclaims. "Perhaps we can hear you play sometime?"
And that's when he pulls a CD out of his bag and hands it to her. "I brought this for you, Mrs. Taylor. We can listen to it during dinner."
"Is this you?" Mom turns the CD over in her hand. E.'s face is on the cover, looking pained. I think he thought the picture was romantic, but it misses the mark.
"I've recorded a few CD's for a small label." Which is located in his apartment. A music production student recorded the music and then they pressed up the CD's and printed the inserts on his computer. He still has boxes of them in the corner. "Justin is going to do the cover art for my next release."
Oh. "I am?"
E. nudges me. "Remember? We talked about it the other night."
I must have been half asleep. "Oh, sure. The cover art. It'll be fun."
"I autographed it, too, Mrs. Taylor."
"Why, thank you, Ethan. I'll put it on right now."
Molly rolls her eyes.
"That was really laying it on thick," I whisper as we go into the dining room.
"I want to be invited back," E. smirks. "No skin off my ass. And your mom is nice. Next time I have a recital, I'll send her a couple of tickets."
"What about me?" I wrinkle my nose at him.
"You'll be in the wings, J.," he says, batting his eyes coyly. "I need my Muse close by for inspiration."
His Muse.
Jesus.
Sometimes I wonder whether he really believes all this bullshit. It seems so. But then I'll catch an expression on his face that says it's all an act. I don't really know what to believe. But it's working on my mother, that's for sure.
The roast chicken is great. E. and I eat like a pair of starving vultures. I guess we've been living on pizza and bags of chips too long. I can't cook anything in E.'s disgusting kitchen and I don't feel like cooking when I'm alone in the loft. Mom refills our plates. There's nothing that makes a mother happier than watching people eat her food. Especially her son and his...
Shit.
I almost said boyfriend.
Get a grip, Taylor! Ethan Gold is NOT your fucking boyfriend!
He's not!
After we rampage through the apple pie, Mom serves coffee in the living room, while Molly goes upstairs.
"This is so nice," says my mother. "And your music is beautiful, Ethan."
"Thank you, Mrs. Taylor." And then he tells the story about his grandfather and the Nazis. Mom ends up in tears. Which was exactly what he intended.
"You're welcome back any time, Ethan," she says, ushering us to the door. "And thanks so much for the CD."
"That was swell," says Ethan as we walk out to the Jeep. "Your mom is a good cook." He stops me in the driveway. "Dinner was tasty, but the best is still to come. Right. J.?" And he leers at me. Then he kisses me.
My hand moves to my pocket, feeling for my cellphone.
I want to call Brian. But... I can't.
Brian's doing his thing. And I'm doing mine. We understand each other. If it's meant to be, then it will be. And if it's not...
Then I do not want what I haven't got.
Even if what I haven't got is Brian.
Only time will tell.
And in the meanwhile...
***
"So I'm walking through the desert
And I am not frightened although it's hot,
I have all that I requested,
And I do not want what I haven't got."
(Sinead O'Connor)