FIC: Get Used to It, Entourage, V/E, NC-17, 5/6
Previous.
So they keep going. Week after week of talking and being stared at and then more talking. Week after week, Eric leaves feeling exhausted and sometimes raw, sometimes angry, sometimes frustrated. He doesn’t feel closer to Vince; he just feels more wary of him, afraid that anything he says is just going to end up fodder for their next awkward therapy discussion. After a month of that weirdness on top of everything else, it’s time to start promotions for Nightfeeders. They meet with Shauna and Ari to discuss a strategy, the basic gist of which is that Vince should do as many appearances as he can, which promises to be a challenge since everyone wants him. They agree to definite dates for Leno and Letterman and Conan, and also agree that Vince will do a couple of magazine interviews a few weeks out. Shauna says she can lay ground rules about their relationship being off limits if they want.
“No, that’s OK,” Vince says. “I can dodge around it.”
“Honey, if you give them the opening, they’re going spend the whole time on it.”
He shrugs, and Eric barely catches himself from groaning aloud. “Vin,” he starts, but Vince says, “So what? I’m not gonna say anything stupid and I don’t have anything to hide.”
“Vince, I know, but -”
“Would you even have to set ground rules like that if I was with a girl instead of E?” Vince crosses his arms. “What’s the big fucking deal, then? I’m a grown-up, guys, I can handle a fucking reporter. I’m not the story, the movie is.”
Ari’s making bug-eyes at Eric, but Eric can’t stir himself to care. Beyond that, he knows from therapy that things like this are important to Vince. He wants to be more open about their relationship, and if Eric argues against this, it’s going to seem like a rejection or something. “Sounds good,” he says, instead, ignoring Ari completely. “What else do you want?”
In the car on the way home, Eric sits in the back, Vince in the front. Eric rests his head against the window and closes his eyes. He’s just so fucking tired. All he wants out of the day - any day - is a good night’s sleep, a decent meal that isn’t interrupted by the phone, and a few hours where the only thing he has to think about is what’s on television and whether it’s time for another beer, and maybe how nice it is to be laying on the couch with Vince. Instead they run around everywhere, flashes still going off every time he gets out of a vehicle, people still giving him strange, knowing looks when they show up together places, Drama still cracking jokes every once in a while, and when he has a moment free he has therapy homework to think about. His head hurts almost all the time, and he drinks more coffee than is good for him, enough that he’s starting to have trouble sleeping. Just another month, he tells himself, taking two Excedrin with a cappuccino that afternoon. They just have to get through the premiere, and a successful launch for the movie, and then things will be better. Things will be easier.
The next night, just as they’re walking in the door, Eric’s phone rings. Vince signals that he’s heading back to the bedroom, and Eric nods and takes his call into the living room. It’s his aunt, and he stares at the number for a moment, not wanting to answer. He knows what she wants - he’s still dealing with getting his mother’s place in Queens packed up, and she really wants her son and daughter-in-law to move in over the summer. In theory, Eric’s in favor of this - they need a place to live, they’re good people, and Eric likes the idea of the place staying in the family. He and his cousin, Darren, were really close as kids and even later in life - Eric still thinks of Darren’s daughter as his niece, or the closest that he, as an only child, will ever get to having one. But the deal has been hard to make. It’s the mixture of family and business that Eric doesn’t like. Darren and his wife don’t really have the money to pay market value for the place. Eric’s aunt, never the most delicate of women, pointed out in their last conversation that Eric can afford to take the financial hit, since he’s “shacking up with a millionaire.” It’s true; Eric doesn’t need to make a profit on the place, though it would be nice to at least clear what’s still owed on it. What pisses him off is that it’s actually his own money that makes that possible. He’s earned the money he lives on. Yeah, fine, he lives in the house Vince bought, and he drives the car Vince bought, but most of his life - most of his life is still his own. He buys his own clothes. He’s careful with what he spends on food and entertainment and drinks and all that, delineating what’s business and what’s not (it takes him several hours with a highlighter to figure everything out every time his credit card statements come). Hearing his aunt tell him he’s some kind of mooch, well, it’s the icing on the shitty tabloid-baked gold-digger cake. He silences the phone and decides he’ll call her back in the morning. He needs to talk to the appraiser, anyway, about what his mother’s place is worth by now.
His aunt’s voice mail joins a few others that came in while they were at the movies, and Eric drops his phone onto the coffee table and decides to leave it there overnight. He can charge it at the office tomorrow, or in the car. He just, for one night, doesn’t want to be in the same room with it.
Vince is already in bed, propped up by a couple of pillows, watching TV. “Who was that?” Vince asks.
“Nobody,” Eric says. There’s a game on, so Vince won’t ask anything more, or probably even remember once Eric’s out of the bathroom. He goes through all of his nightly routine, his mind flickering through all of the things he needs to do tomorrow and all of the things he’s done that day. He wonders what his aunt had to say this time. It took her a month to call him after the Golden Globes, even though he’d been hearing from her almost every week since the funeral. Their calls are a little different, now; less chatty, more businesslike. He’s waiting for her to say something really harsh. Every time he gets off the phone with her, he thinks, inevitably, about the last conversation he had with Vince’s mother, and he gets the same nauseated feeling. Your mother would be ashamed.
He doesn’t believe that. Really, he doesn’t. But it hurts, anyway, that Vince’s mother - who he grew up next door to, who was always his second mother, and who still isn’t talking to Vince - can be so, well, mean about things.
He splashes water over his face, then looks himself in the eye. No more of this. He doesn’t need to remind Vince. The guy still tries to call his mother every Friday night.
“Yo,” Vince says around a yawn as Eric walks in. Eric nods and sits on his side of the bed. Vince mutes the television, and his hand rubs up under Eric’s T-shirt as Eric messes with his alarm clock. It’s already 3, and they’re supposed to be at Shauna’s by 10. If he falls asleep right now, instead of in the two hours it’s been taking him, he’ll get maybe five hours of sleep. More likely, he’ll get almost none.
Vince’s arms slide around him from behind, and his chin hooks over Eric’s shoulder. “What’d you think of the movie?”
“It was OK,” he says. Vince kisses the back of his neck, and his hands slide around to Eric’s abs. “What’d you think?”
“Yeah, fine,” Vince says. He’s trying to pull Eric back onto the bed - and onto him - and Eric puts his hand on Vince’s wrist to stop him. “What?”
Eric turns, wanting to ask if maybe they can just postpone, and he can see confusion and, then, a flicker of frustration on Vince’s face. And, yeah, OK, he turned Vince down last night, and two nights ago he pretended to be asleep when Vince came to bed. So he kisses him, and lets Vince pull him down to the bed, and he does the best he can to make sure it goes as quickly as possible. If sex helped him sleep, then maybe he’d be more excited for it, but tonight, when Vince puts an arm around him, kisses his shoulder blade, and starts snuffling peacefully, Eric’s still awake. The day keeps running through his head - and the day before that, and the day before that, and the day before that. Just get through the premiere, he tells himself. Just get this movie open and things will be better.
That week they get through a meeting with Shauna, and a conference call with Ari, and they even tape a television appearance, and then it’s time to go to therapy again. Eric pops two Excedrin before they go in, not sure when his last dose was, but needing the kick of the caffeine to improve on his four hours of sleep.
Margot asks what they’d like to talk about, and Vince says, “We haven’t been having as much sex recently,” and Eric nearly falls off the couch.
“Jesus Christ,” he says, dropping his head into the hand propped on the couch arm. His face feels hot. The nightmare is complete. There’s nothing that’s just personal, nothing that’s private. His entire life is now up for discussion.
“We used to almost every day,” Vince says. “And now it’s like, he’s always too tired or -”
“Shut up,” Eric says. He pulls his head up, sits up as straight as he can. He can’t quite meet Vince’s eyes or Margot’s, but he looks Vince’s direction. “Shut up. We’re not talking about this.”
“Why not? You don’t think it’s a problem?”
Eric’s head is pulsing. “I think what’s a problem is that you think we have to talk about every goddamned thing,” he says, rubbing his temples. “I hate this. I feel - everything’s so - Jesus Christ, with everything that’s going on, you’re worried about this? I am fucking tired, Vince. It’s not a slight, it’s not some deeper sign that we’re in trouble, it’s not about how much I want you, I’m just fucking tired. I’m so -” He can’t think of the words. His hands are shaking; his chest feels tight. Margot is watching him. “I can’t do this anymore,” he says, standing up. “You stay if you need to, but I’m done with this.”
He hears Vince call his name as he walks out, but he doesn’t stop. He pushes through the tiny, empty waiting room into the hall outside Margot’s office, and it’s there that Vince catches him, one hand around his arm, Vince’s breath coming fast. “Jesus, stop,” Vince says. Eric’s staring down the hall at the bright sunlight beyond the tinted glass doors. So far, they haven’t been followed out here, but maybe today will be the day. “E, talk to me.”
Eric shakes his head. He can’t look at Vince, still. “I’m done talking for today.”
“OK,” Vince says, his voice gentle, patronizing. “We’ll go home. OK?”
He can’t think of anything to say, so he nods, and they walk in silence to the car. Vince keeps glancing at him during the drive, but it’s really all Eric can do just to concentrate on the road. His head is pounding. Fuck, they’re gonna get home and Vince is going to want to talk about it, about everything. It’s just going to go on and on and on.
Paparazzi are waiting outside of the house - a few less than they started with, but still five guys with cameras that snap to attention as they drive through. Eric shields his face with one hand, then stops the car in the driveway but doesn’t turn it off, even when Vince opens his door. “E?” Vince says, putting his hand on Eric’s arm.
He pulls away from Vince, not roughly, just carefully. All he wants right then, really, is to go lay down in his bed, but he knows he’ll have to face a gauntlet of talking with Vince before he gets that chance. So he takes a deep breath, and says, very quietly, “Don’t take this wrong, OK, but I need some time alone.”
“Oh.” He dares a glance over, sees a brief flash of fear and sadness on Vince’s face before he gets control of his face. Eric looks away again. “Um. How much time?”
He shrugs. He just needs a little space. A chance to breathe without anyone watching him. He doesn’t have a plan, just a vague idea that he needs to get away, just for a while, from Vince, from thinking about Vince, from thinking altogether. “I’ll be home tonight.”
“E,” Vince says, and his touch on Eric’s shoulder is very light. “This isn’t - I mean, you’re not -”
Eric looks up, sees the fear in Vince’s eyes again, and he touches his arm. “I’ll be home tonight,” he says quietly, and Vince nods, again, and slowly drops his hand from Eric’s shoulder. He gets out of the car, and Eric watches him retreat into the house - their house, his house - before he turns around and drives away.
There’s not even anywhere he can go, really; he can’t check into a motel overnight, he can’t go crash with the guys. His picture was on the cover of People and there’s a crowd of gossipy photographers guarding his door. Eric ends up at his office. Actually, he ends up in Vince’s office, where there’s a couch that he can stretch out on after he shuts the blinds. The room is almost completely dark, and he turns his face to the back, closes his eyes, and tries to pretend it’s night. Maybe because there’s so much going on in his head that he can’t focus on anything, maybe because he doesn’t have Vince right next to him, reminding him of everything he has to do, or maybe because he’s finally just hit a wall of exhaustion, it doesn’t take him too long to fall asleep. He dreams about being a zookeeper, and his whole dream is saturated with the feeling that something’s gotten loose, that he needs to find the animal - a rhinoceros, or a zebra, he’s never quite sure - before anyone realizes. He wakes up to dim room, his heart pounding, and even as the dream fades the anxiety stays put. It takes him a minute to figure out where he is, and then the rest of the day comes flooding back and he feels even worse.
“E?”
His head snaps around so fast he can feel a muscle strain in his neck. “Oh, Jesus,” he says, rubbing his neck as Vince walks in.
“Hey, there you are,” Vince says, like he’s walking into their bedroom or something, not finding Eric asleep on his office couch. “Your phone’s off.”
“Really?” Eric says. He doesn’t remember turning it off. Actually, he doesn’t remember bringing it in from the car - which is probably the problem.
Vince takes a seat on his desk, facing Eric, and leans back on his arms. “Your aunt called the house.”
“Fuck me,” Eric says. He rubs his face. Yeah, he was supposed to call her back today, and also the appraiser, and also the insurance guy and the lawyer who’s dealing with the final will stuff.
“You’re selling Darren your ma’s place?” Eric nods. “I didn’t know that was even going on, still. I mean, last I heard you were wrapping the whole deal up.”
He shrugs. “We’re just working out some details.”
“E, seriously,” Vince says, “what is going on?”
Eric narrows his eyes. “With the house?”
“With you.”
“Nothing,” Eric says. Vince sits up and crosses his arms, glaring down at him, and Eric wants to snap, but he’s so fucking drained. “What, Vince?” he says, and he knows how tired he sounds.
“You used to tell me everything.”
“Yeah, well, now I tell your shrink,” Eric says, rubbing his neck. “Isn’t that what you wanted?”
“I want you to talk to me,” Vince says. “I thought maybe Margot could help, but clearly - clearly it’s something else.” Eric leans back, fights the urge to just lay down. “I want to know what I can do to help you, but I can’t help unless I know what’s going on with you.”
“Nothing’s going on with me,” Eric says. “I’m busy, we got movie stuff, there are fucking cameras outside my door, and I’m still working on selling Ma’s place, and that’s it.”
“That’s it. Just business as usual.”
“Basically, yeah.” Vince is staring at him in a way that reminds Eric eerily of Margot. “What? You want me to apologize for not telling you about Darren and the house?”
“No, I want to know what’s going on with you,” Vince says.
“Nothing!” Eric says. He closes his eyes, pinches the bridge of his nose, trying to hold back a headache.
“Nothing. Really. Nothing made you run out of Margot’s office today like -”
“No, you made me run out,” Eric says, opening his eyes. “Christ, I never wanted to go there in the first place.”
“You hit my brother.”
“Yeah,” Eric says, nodding, standing up, “yeah. I did. I hit him after he called us both fags, after he basically called me whore, and after he fucking threw a punching bag at me, twice. I hit him, and even though I would have hit anyone else in the entire fucking world if they’d done that same shit, I felt bad about it because you told me not to, and because, Jesus, haven’t I messed up your family enough?”
“E -”
“But you know what?” Eric tries to point at Vince but his hand is shaking, so he ends up dropping it and making a fist. “He fucking deserved it. And I don’t deserve this shit you’re putting me through. I don’t deserve having to go to fucking therapy, I don’t deserve having to worry about every goddamn thing I do or say with you. Because, Jesus, Vince, this, you and I, this used to be the easy part. This used to be the one thing I could count on, and now - “ He looks away from Vince’s wide, increasingly fear-filled eyes. Eric’s own eyes are starting to burn. “It’s so fucking hard. Everything is so goddamned -”
“All right, you don’t have to - ” Vince says, and he grabs his arm but Eric doesn’t let him pull him in.
“I didn’t even have anywhere else to go today,” he says. “It’s your house, I couldn’t go to the guys because, Jesus, Drama’s your brother, I can’t even go to a goddamned motel because it’d make the news and fuck things up. Christ, I can’t even go - I don’t even have a home in Queens anymore.”
Vince lets go of him. “You really want to be away from me that bad?”
“No,” Eric says, “Jesus, no, I don’t - I’m just - I’m saying, Vin, you’re all I’ve got, right now.” His voice breaks, indignity on top of indignity, and he clears his throat. “And the last couple of weeks, I don’t - we haven’t even - “ He clears his throat again. He feels dizzy, tired, his mouth dry, his eyes a little moist. He falls back onto the couch, puts his elbows on his knees, and risks a look up at Vince. He still looks scared, worried, tense, and above all of that, like he wants to help, still holding his hands out awkwardly. “You and me,” Eric says, his voice now rusty, wet, “this is all the family I’ve got, anymore. You’re it. You’re all I’ve got.”
“Hey, that’s not true.”
“It is,” Eric says. He rests his head in his hands. “It really feels like it is.”
He feels Vince’s arms on his shoulders, and he looks up, sees Vince crouched in front of him. “E,” he says, and then he shakes his head, slowly, like he doesn’t know what to say. That’s fine, Eric doesn’t know what to say, either. He closes his eyes, and Vince moves closer, so they’re in a weird embrace, Vince’s arms around him, Eric’s head on Vince’s shoulder.
“Tell me what I can do,” Vince says, his voice close enough to feel warm. Eric shrugs. He can’t think of anything. He doesn’t want to think at all. “Do you want to go home?” That sounds OK, so he nods. Vince draws back but cups his face, looks him in the eyes for a second, kisses his forehead. Eric knows, he remembers, that Vince loves him, that Vince wants things to work, that he’s there to help, that Eric can, if he needs to, lean on him for a while; he meets Vince’s eyes and nods, the closest he’s got right now to a thank you. Vince pulls him up, and Eric keeps a grip on his hand, looking at that instead of into Vince’s eyes.
“I gotta get some sleep,” he says, rubbing his forehead. “I just, I’m going out of my mind.”
“I’ll help,” Vince says. He keeps an arm around Eric the whole way downstairs, where Turtle’s waiting in the parking space next to Eric’s. He doesn’t say anything as they climb in, and Eric’s grateful. Vince tells him to take them home, then he pulls Eric close, and Eric rests his head on Vince’s shoulder. He doesn’t move, even when they pass through the cameras at the gate.
That night, Vince gives him one of the sleeping pills he used to help him get his schedule turned back around after their last movie, and Eric falls into a dreamless sleep that lasts for about ten hours. He wakes up knowing they’re already late to meet with Shauna and finds the bed empty next to him. Vince has left a note on the kitchen counter.
You needed the rest, it says. I’ll see you at lunch. DON’T WORRY. V
Eric thinks he should call and check in, and then he remembers that his phone is in his car, which is at his office. “Yeah,” Vince says, when Eric calls from the landline, “think of it as a forced day off.”
“I seriously have stuff to do.”
“I seriously don’t want you to have a heart attack before we’re even forty,” Vince says.
“How’m I supposed to meet you for lunch without a fucking car?”
“I’m bringing lunch to you,” Vince says. “Take a bath, get a beer. Relax.”
“Get a beer? It’s -” Oh. It’s one in the afternoon. Eric clears his throat. “OK,” he says. “Uh. I’ll see you in a bit.”
He takes a shower instead of a bath, but he does get a beer, and because it’s May and it’s hot, he takes it out to the pool. Forced day off? Fine, he thinks, stripping off his shirt and diving in. He swims the length of the pool twice, then climbs into a floating chair and paddles to the side where his beer is sweating and waiting for him. He closes his eyes, sips the beer, and tries very hard to think about nothing.
“Now that’s what I like to see,” Vince says when he walks through the back doors. He’s carrying a big white paper sack in one hand and two bottles of beer in the other, and he sets them on one of the lounge chairs. He strips off his shirt, and Eric smiles.
“I was just thinking the same thing.”
Vince doesn’t even change into trunks, just gets in wearing his drab khaki shorts and walks over to where Eric’s floating. Eric bends down to kiss him, and that somehow turns from a greeting into a marathon that doesn’t stop even once Eric’s fallen back into the pool. The water is cold against his sun-warmed skin, but Vince’s body is hot under his hands. They back up until Eric’s pressed against the wall, a jet blowing into his thigh, and he hops up onto the edge to get away from it and to give Vince better access to his dick. Vince doesn’t waste any time getting his wet shorts off, and OK, Eric’s willing to admit maybe they haven’t been having enough sex recently because he comes in about a quarter of his usual time. Vince hefts himself up next to Eric, and when Eric can pay attention again, he leans against Vince and can see that Vince is still hard.
“You want -?”
Vince shakes his head and kisses Eric’s neck. “Later,” he says. “Lunch is getting cold.”
Lunch is supposed to be cold - it’s curried chicken sandwiches and chips - but Eric doesn’t complain. He’s exhausted, from the sun and from Vince, and after they’ve finished eating, all he wants to do is nap. Vince is stretched out on the next lounge chair over, looking pretty sleepy, too. Eric sits up and taps his knee. “Come inside,” he says.
“Why?”
“Because I’ll burn out here,” Eric says, and Vince nods and follows him inside. Eric strips off his wet shorts in the bathroom and changes into a dry pair of sweatpants, and when he walks out Vince is in clean boxers, draped over the couch in the living room. Eric climbs onto the couch and Vince shifts back, and Eric falls asleep with Vince’s arms around him, Vince’s chest warm against his back.
He wakes up alone on the couch, but tucked under a blanket. It’s too hot, but he knows it’s Vince’s way of showing he cares. Eric stays put. He knows once he gets off the couch, they’re gonna have to talk, and he’s just not up for it.
Vince walks in a few minutes later and says, “Hey, you’re awake,” and walks over. He puts his hand on Eric’s shoulder and kisses his cheek, and Eric realizes he’s treating him a little bit like he’s got a cold or something. It’s kind of sweet, and kind of weird. “How’re you feeling?”
“Fine,” Eric says, even though that’s not quite accurate. He clears his throat, sees Vince’s earnest expression, and looks away. “Actually, uh, would it be OK if we didn’t, uh, talk yet?”
“At all?”
“I mean about yesterday, and - everything.”
Vince shrugs. “That’s actually part of the Don’t Worry plan.”
Eric smiles. “Best plan ever,” he says.
“I thought you might like it.” Vince stretches out beside him, reaches over him for the remote control. He flips to ESPN.
“Can we - is it against the rules for me to ask how the meeting with Shauna went?”
“It went fine,” Vince says. “Typical interviews and bullshit to do before the movie. Press rounds at the Chateau on Saturday. Letterman on Monday, with the same rounds out there.”
“In New York.”
Vince nods. “Just a couple of days.”
Eric thinks about that for a second, and he feels sad. It used to be that if they were headed out East, they’d schedule at least a weekend, time to see their families. Time for him to see his mother and for Vince to see his. Now, that won’t be possible. They have to get back here for the premiere and more press. Still, time in New York will be good. He opens his mouth to say that, to mention he can maybe even check in on the house while they’re there, get some business done, and instead he hears himself say, “I miss my mom.” And even as he says it, the tight, terrible feeling swirls back up in his chest, and his throat gets a little tight. He can’t yet picture going to New York without seeing his mother there.
Vince’s arm gets briefly tighter around him. “I know,” he says.
“You do?”
He nods, and Eric feels Vince’s cheek rest against this head. “You’ve been pretty sad,” he says.
“I have?” Vince tightens his arms around him again. “I - I guess,” he says.
“I thought it was me, for a while,” Vince says. “But then, after yesterday, I figured it out.”
“I thought we weren’t gonna talk,” Eric murmurs, closing his eyes. His voice is scratchy; his throat is starting to ache.
“You brought it up,” Vince says, and kisses his neck. “It’s OK. We don’t have to. You don’t have to say anything more.”
Eric nods, just once, and then he grips Vince’s arm and swallows hard against the rising lump in his throat. If a few tears squeeze out, no one sees it but him. No one but him, and Vince.
The next day, Vince has to get a haircut and meet with his stylist before Leno, which conflicts with a scheduled therapy session. He says he doesn’t mind canceling - and would have been doing so anyway, because therapy before an interview was a recipe for disaster - but Eric volunteers to drive over and tell Margot in person while Vince is at the hairdresser. He tells himself it’s just to apologize for walking out the other day, and because he doesn’t want her to think that Vince is with a guy who flies off the handle or anything, but by the time he’s on the couch he’s not even particularly lying to himself about that anymore.
“How long ago?” she asks, when he mentions that his mother died.
“October,” Eric says. “So, eight months, I guess.” He rubs his chest, nervously, waiting for the big swell of anger or emotion to rise up again. He’s feeling frighteningly empty today, empty and a little raw, and he wonders if maybe this is not the way to come to therapy. He tells Margot that, and then he says, “Vince says I’ve been kind of sad.”
“Do you think that’s accurate?”
His gut reaction is to say no. He’s been tired, he’s been stressed, he’s been angry. Sad doesn’t seem like the right word for the last few months. A guy with his life shouldn’t really be sad, should he? But that word - it comes close to what he’s feeling, down underneath everything else. “I don’t know,” he says, shrugging, and she smiles, just faintly.
“Well, that’s a good place to start.”
He meets Vince and the guys at Le Petit Fours for lunch, and they all walk in together, a tight foursome like always and no one seems to really be looking at them. When they leave, though, there are a few photographers clustered by the curb, and they call out his name and Vince’s, and Vince stops and says, “Guys, lay off, can you? There’s nothing to see here.” When Drama suggests they stop by Barney’s to get Vince a new shirt for his upcoming interviews, Vince says, “Nah, let’s lay low,” and Eric feels both embarrassed and grateful.
“You taking it easy on me, now?” Eric asks when they’ve dropped the guys off and are headed home.
“One thing at a time,” Vince says.
That night in bed, Eric says, “It’s not you. None of this is you.”
Vince props himself up on one elbow and looks down at him. “I haven’t exactly been making things easier on you.”
Eric rubs his face. He can’t quite look at Vince when he says, “Margot asked me if I was, uh, she thought I might be, like, thinking about - suicide.”
Vince’s hand falls gently on to Eric’s forearm. “Yeah,” he says.
“Were you worried about that?”
“No,” Vince says, then he says, “Not that. But - worried. I don’t know. I didn’t always know what was going on with you, the last few months.”
“I never thought about that,” Eric says quietly. “I wouldn’t ever leave you like that. OK?”
“Yeah,” Vince says, and he kisses Eric’s shoulder, rests his cheek there. “I know.” They lay there for a moment, Eric appreciating the even, soft lift and fall of Vince’s breathing. “Are you going to see her again?”
Eric nods. “After we get back from New York. Maybe once a week, for a while.”
“She’s very good.”
“So I’ve heard.” He turns a little, so they’re nearly face-to-face. “I swear it’s not you. You’re the best thing -”
“I love you, too,” Vince says, and pulls Eric close, so it’s easy, it’s actually not hard at all, for him to sleep.
The thing is, he doesn’t really feel better - if anything, realizing what the problem is has made him feel even worse, more off-balance than ever, because he can’t help thinking that it’s something that can’t be fixed. His mother isn’t going to come back to life just because he misses her. Vince and Margot both tell him the same thing - give it time - but he doesn’t have time to mourn. He doesn’t even hardly have time to breathe. The movie release is upon them, and that week is packed. Vince is scheduled to tape appearances on six different television shows over the course of the next two weeks: Leno, Letterman, Conan, Ferguson, “The Today show,” and “The Daily Show.”
“That’s a lot of time in New York,” Vince says.
“Oh, and TRL, did I forget that one?” Shauna asks.
“Seriously? Next, you’re gonna say ‘The View.’”
“No way am I putting you up against those bitches,” she says. “That’s a recipe for disaster. No. If you’re still sticking to this thing where you think you’re gonna get away with just talking about the movie, then these are the shows you do. Lauer might try and give you a hard time on Today, but you can probably laugh him off. Monday you have press at the Chateau here, Tuesday in New York at the Plaza.
“Sure,” Vince says. “Whatever you think.”
Eric knows he should be worried about the interviews, but he can’t seem to focus on it. Vince is a pro, he knows how to handle these guys, and he knows the movie is a big deal. Shauna’s handling all of the pre-interview stuff, planting a bunch of stories that will just come directly back to the movie. At dinner that night, Drama asks Vince if he’s worried about all of the interviews. “You wanna run through some stories or something, want me to pretend to be Leno? Or, I do a killer Letterman.”
“Nah,” Vince says. “It’s gonna be fine. I’ve done it before, right?”
Drama gives him a funny look, but Eric just shrugs. “Bro, you know they’re gonna wanna talk about you and E, right? I mean, no one’s interested in hearing about the movie.”
Vince shrugs. “It’s not that hard to say it’s none of their business,” he says.
“These guys do this for a living,” Drama says.
“So what? So do I.”
“I mean, they can make it pretty fucking awkward for you. I remember once, I was on The Daily Show -”
Turtle snorts. “When were you on the fucking Daily Show?”
Drama straightens his shirt, sits up like he’s offended. “I used to drink with Kilborn, sometimes, back in the day.”
Eric rolls his eyes. Vince is looking at him. “You think I should be worried?” he asks.
“No,” Eric says, almost automatically. He thinks, actually, they should both be worried, but he’s too tired to do it, and if Vince isn’t worried, well, all the better. “It’s gonna be fine.”
Drama and Turtle are bickering, now, about who was better on ESPN, Kilborn or Olbermann. “E, seriously,” Vince says, his hands dropping onto Eric’s shoulders. “Do you want to stay home?”
“What?”
“You’ve been real quiet all day. Is it the city?”
Eric looks up at Vince, who has on his best concerned face. “I swear, I’m just worried about the movie stuff,” he says, feeling himself blush a little.
“OK,” Vince says. “Then stop, because you’re gonna mess my head up, talking about this stuff.”
Eric nods, and he forces a smile, puts his hand on Vince’s leg under the table as he turns to tell the guys to knock it off. It’s going to be fine, he thinks. It has to be.
Next.
So they keep going. Week after week of talking and being stared at and then more talking. Week after week, Eric leaves feeling exhausted and sometimes raw, sometimes angry, sometimes frustrated. He doesn’t feel closer to Vince; he just feels more wary of him, afraid that anything he says is just going to end up fodder for their next awkward therapy discussion. After a month of that weirdness on top of everything else, it’s time to start promotions for Nightfeeders. They meet with Shauna and Ari to discuss a strategy, the basic gist of which is that Vince should do as many appearances as he can, which promises to be a challenge since everyone wants him. They agree to definite dates for Leno and Letterman and Conan, and also agree that Vince will do a couple of magazine interviews a few weeks out. Shauna says she can lay ground rules about their relationship being off limits if they want.
“No, that’s OK,” Vince says. “I can dodge around it.”
“Honey, if you give them the opening, they’re going spend the whole time on it.”
He shrugs, and Eric barely catches himself from groaning aloud. “Vin,” he starts, but Vince says, “So what? I’m not gonna say anything stupid and I don’t have anything to hide.”
“Vince, I know, but -”
“Would you even have to set ground rules like that if I was with a girl instead of E?” Vince crosses his arms. “What’s the big fucking deal, then? I’m a grown-up, guys, I can handle a fucking reporter. I’m not the story, the movie is.”
Ari’s making bug-eyes at Eric, but Eric can’t stir himself to care. Beyond that, he knows from therapy that things like this are important to Vince. He wants to be more open about their relationship, and if Eric argues against this, it’s going to seem like a rejection or something. “Sounds good,” he says, instead, ignoring Ari completely. “What else do you want?”
In the car on the way home, Eric sits in the back, Vince in the front. Eric rests his head against the window and closes his eyes. He’s just so fucking tired. All he wants out of the day - any day - is a good night’s sleep, a decent meal that isn’t interrupted by the phone, and a few hours where the only thing he has to think about is what’s on television and whether it’s time for another beer, and maybe how nice it is to be laying on the couch with Vince. Instead they run around everywhere, flashes still going off every time he gets out of a vehicle, people still giving him strange, knowing looks when they show up together places, Drama still cracking jokes every once in a while, and when he has a moment free he has therapy homework to think about. His head hurts almost all the time, and he drinks more coffee than is good for him, enough that he’s starting to have trouble sleeping. Just another month, he tells himself, taking two Excedrin with a cappuccino that afternoon. They just have to get through the premiere, and a successful launch for the movie, and then things will be better. Things will be easier.
The next night, just as they’re walking in the door, Eric’s phone rings. Vince signals that he’s heading back to the bedroom, and Eric nods and takes his call into the living room. It’s his aunt, and he stares at the number for a moment, not wanting to answer. He knows what she wants - he’s still dealing with getting his mother’s place in Queens packed up, and she really wants her son and daughter-in-law to move in over the summer. In theory, Eric’s in favor of this - they need a place to live, they’re good people, and Eric likes the idea of the place staying in the family. He and his cousin, Darren, were really close as kids and even later in life - Eric still thinks of Darren’s daughter as his niece, or the closest that he, as an only child, will ever get to having one. But the deal has been hard to make. It’s the mixture of family and business that Eric doesn’t like. Darren and his wife don’t really have the money to pay market value for the place. Eric’s aunt, never the most delicate of women, pointed out in their last conversation that Eric can afford to take the financial hit, since he’s “shacking up with a millionaire.” It’s true; Eric doesn’t need to make a profit on the place, though it would be nice to at least clear what’s still owed on it. What pisses him off is that it’s actually his own money that makes that possible. He’s earned the money he lives on. Yeah, fine, he lives in the house Vince bought, and he drives the car Vince bought, but most of his life - most of his life is still his own. He buys his own clothes. He’s careful with what he spends on food and entertainment and drinks and all that, delineating what’s business and what’s not (it takes him several hours with a highlighter to figure everything out every time his credit card statements come). Hearing his aunt tell him he’s some kind of mooch, well, it’s the icing on the shitty tabloid-baked gold-digger cake. He silences the phone and decides he’ll call her back in the morning. He needs to talk to the appraiser, anyway, about what his mother’s place is worth by now.
His aunt’s voice mail joins a few others that came in while they were at the movies, and Eric drops his phone onto the coffee table and decides to leave it there overnight. He can charge it at the office tomorrow, or in the car. He just, for one night, doesn’t want to be in the same room with it.
Vince is already in bed, propped up by a couple of pillows, watching TV. “Who was that?” Vince asks.
“Nobody,” Eric says. There’s a game on, so Vince won’t ask anything more, or probably even remember once Eric’s out of the bathroom. He goes through all of his nightly routine, his mind flickering through all of the things he needs to do tomorrow and all of the things he’s done that day. He wonders what his aunt had to say this time. It took her a month to call him after the Golden Globes, even though he’d been hearing from her almost every week since the funeral. Their calls are a little different, now; less chatty, more businesslike. He’s waiting for her to say something really harsh. Every time he gets off the phone with her, he thinks, inevitably, about the last conversation he had with Vince’s mother, and he gets the same nauseated feeling. Your mother would be ashamed.
He doesn’t believe that. Really, he doesn’t. But it hurts, anyway, that Vince’s mother - who he grew up next door to, who was always his second mother, and who still isn’t talking to Vince - can be so, well, mean about things.
He splashes water over his face, then looks himself in the eye. No more of this. He doesn’t need to remind Vince. The guy still tries to call his mother every Friday night.
“Yo,” Vince says around a yawn as Eric walks in. Eric nods and sits on his side of the bed. Vince mutes the television, and his hand rubs up under Eric’s T-shirt as Eric messes with his alarm clock. It’s already 3, and they’re supposed to be at Shauna’s by 10. If he falls asleep right now, instead of in the two hours it’s been taking him, he’ll get maybe five hours of sleep. More likely, he’ll get almost none.
Vince’s arms slide around him from behind, and his chin hooks over Eric’s shoulder. “What’d you think of the movie?”
“It was OK,” he says. Vince kisses the back of his neck, and his hands slide around to Eric’s abs. “What’d you think?”
“Yeah, fine,” Vince says. He’s trying to pull Eric back onto the bed - and onto him - and Eric puts his hand on Vince’s wrist to stop him. “What?”
Eric turns, wanting to ask if maybe they can just postpone, and he can see confusion and, then, a flicker of frustration on Vince’s face. And, yeah, OK, he turned Vince down last night, and two nights ago he pretended to be asleep when Vince came to bed. So he kisses him, and lets Vince pull him down to the bed, and he does the best he can to make sure it goes as quickly as possible. If sex helped him sleep, then maybe he’d be more excited for it, but tonight, when Vince puts an arm around him, kisses his shoulder blade, and starts snuffling peacefully, Eric’s still awake. The day keeps running through his head - and the day before that, and the day before that, and the day before that. Just get through the premiere, he tells himself. Just get this movie open and things will be better.
That week they get through a meeting with Shauna, and a conference call with Ari, and they even tape a television appearance, and then it’s time to go to therapy again. Eric pops two Excedrin before they go in, not sure when his last dose was, but needing the kick of the caffeine to improve on his four hours of sleep.
Margot asks what they’d like to talk about, and Vince says, “We haven’t been having as much sex recently,” and Eric nearly falls off the couch.
“Jesus Christ,” he says, dropping his head into the hand propped on the couch arm. His face feels hot. The nightmare is complete. There’s nothing that’s just personal, nothing that’s private. His entire life is now up for discussion.
“We used to almost every day,” Vince says. “And now it’s like, he’s always too tired or -”
“Shut up,” Eric says. He pulls his head up, sits up as straight as he can. He can’t quite meet Vince’s eyes or Margot’s, but he looks Vince’s direction. “Shut up. We’re not talking about this.”
“Why not? You don’t think it’s a problem?”
Eric’s head is pulsing. “I think what’s a problem is that you think we have to talk about every goddamned thing,” he says, rubbing his temples. “I hate this. I feel - everything’s so - Jesus Christ, with everything that’s going on, you’re worried about this? I am fucking tired, Vince. It’s not a slight, it’s not some deeper sign that we’re in trouble, it’s not about how much I want you, I’m just fucking tired. I’m so -” He can’t think of the words. His hands are shaking; his chest feels tight. Margot is watching him. “I can’t do this anymore,” he says, standing up. “You stay if you need to, but I’m done with this.”
He hears Vince call his name as he walks out, but he doesn’t stop. He pushes through the tiny, empty waiting room into the hall outside Margot’s office, and it’s there that Vince catches him, one hand around his arm, Vince’s breath coming fast. “Jesus, stop,” Vince says. Eric’s staring down the hall at the bright sunlight beyond the tinted glass doors. So far, they haven’t been followed out here, but maybe today will be the day. “E, talk to me.”
Eric shakes his head. He can’t look at Vince, still. “I’m done talking for today.”
“OK,” Vince says, his voice gentle, patronizing. “We’ll go home. OK?”
He can’t think of anything to say, so he nods, and they walk in silence to the car. Vince keeps glancing at him during the drive, but it’s really all Eric can do just to concentrate on the road. His head is pounding. Fuck, they’re gonna get home and Vince is going to want to talk about it, about everything. It’s just going to go on and on and on.
Paparazzi are waiting outside of the house - a few less than they started with, but still five guys with cameras that snap to attention as they drive through. Eric shields his face with one hand, then stops the car in the driveway but doesn’t turn it off, even when Vince opens his door. “E?” Vince says, putting his hand on Eric’s arm.
He pulls away from Vince, not roughly, just carefully. All he wants right then, really, is to go lay down in his bed, but he knows he’ll have to face a gauntlet of talking with Vince before he gets that chance. So he takes a deep breath, and says, very quietly, “Don’t take this wrong, OK, but I need some time alone.”
“Oh.” He dares a glance over, sees a brief flash of fear and sadness on Vince’s face before he gets control of his face. Eric looks away again. “Um. How much time?”
He shrugs. He just needs a little space. A chance to breathe without anyone watching him. He doesn’t have a plan, just a vague idea that he needs to get away, just for a while, from Vince, from thinking about Vince, from thinking altogether. “I’ll be home tonight.”
“E,” Vince says, and his touch on Eric’s shoulder is very light. “This isn’t - I mean, you’re not -”
Eric looks up, sees the fear in Vince’s eyes again, and he touches his arm. “I’ll be home tonight,” he says quietly, and Vince nods, again, and slowly drops his hand from Eric’s shoulder. He gets out of the car, and Eric watches him retreat into the house - their house, his house - before he turns around and drives away.
There’s not even anywhere he can go, really; he can’t check into a motel overnight, he can’t go crash with the guys. His picture was on the cover of People and there’s a crowd of gossipy photographers guarding his door. Eric ends up at his office. Actually, he ends up in Vince’s office, where there’s a couch that he can stretch out on after he shuts the blinds. The room is almost completely dark, and he turns his face to the back, closes his eyes, and tries to pretend it’s night. Maybe because there’s so much going on in his head that he can’t focus on anything, maybe because he doesn’t have Vince right next to him, reminding him of everything he has to do, or maybe because he’s finally just hit a wall of exhaustion, it doesn’t take him too long to fall asleep. He dreams about being a zookeeper, and his whole dream is saturated with the feeling that something’s gotten loose, that he needs to find the animal - a rhinoceros, or a zebra, he’s never quite sure - before anyone realizes. He wakes up to dim room, his heart pounding, and even as the dream fades the anxiety stays put. It takes him a minute to figure out where he is, and then the rest of the day comes flooding back and he feels even worse.
“E?”
His head snaps around so fast he can feel a muscle strain in his neck. “Oh, Jesus,” he says, rubbing his neck as Vince walks in.
“Hey, there you are,” Vince says, like he’s walking into their bedroom or something, not finding Eric asleep on his office couch. “Your phone’s off.”
“Really?” Eric says. He doesn’t remember turning it off. Actually, he doesn’t remember bringing it in from the car - which is probably the problem.
Vince takes a seat on his desk, facing Eric, and leans back on his arms. “Your aunt called the house.”
“Fuck me,” Eric says. He rubs his face. Yeah, he was supposed to call her back today, and also the appraiser, and also the insurance guy and the lawyer who’s dealing with the final will stuff.
“You’re selling Darren your ma’s place?” Eric nods. “I didn’t know that was even going on, still. I mean, last I heard you were wrapping the whole deal up.”
He shrugs. “We’re just working out some details.”
“E, seriously,” Vince says, “what is going on?”
Eric narrows his eyes. “With the house?”
“With you.”
“Nothing,” Eric says. Vince sits up and crosses his arms, glaring down at him, and Eric wants to snap, but he’s so fucking drained. “What, Vince?” he says, and he knows how tired he sounds.
“You used to tell me everything.”
“Yeah, well, now I tell your shrink,” Eric says, rubbing his neck. “Isn’t that what you wanted?”
“I want you to talk to me,” Vince says. “I thought maybe Margot could help, but clearly - clearly it’s something else.” Eric leans back, fights the urge to just lay down. “I want to know what I can do to help you, but I can’t help unless I know what’s going on with you.”
“Nothing’s going on with me,” Eric says. “I’m busy, we got movie stuff, there are fucking cameras outside my door, and I’m still working on selling Ma’s place, and that’s it.”
“That’s it. Just business as usual.”
“Basically, yeah.” Vince is staring at him in a way that reminds Eric eerily of Margot. “What? You want me to apologize for not telling you about Darren and the house?”
“No, I want to know what’s going on with you,” Vince says.
“Nothing!” Eric says. He closes his eyes, pinches the bridge of his nose, trying to hold back a headache.
“Nothing. Really. Nothing made you run out of Margot’s office today like -”
“No, you made me run out,” Eric says, opening his eyes. “Christ, I never wanted to go there in the first place.”
“You hit my brother.”
“Yeah,” Eric says, nodding, standing up, “yeah. I did. I hit him after he called us both fags, after he basically called me whore, and after he fucking threw a punching bag at me, twice. I hit him, and even though I would have hit anyone else in the entire fucking world if they’d done that same shit, I felt bad about it because you told me not to, and because, Jesus, haven’t I messed up your family enough?”
“E -”
“But you know what?” Eric tries to point at Vince but his hand is shaking, so he ends up dropping it and making a fist. “He fucking deserved it. And I don’t deserve this shit you’re putting me through. I don’t deserve having to go to fucking therapy, I don’t deserve having to worry about every goddamn thing I do or say with you. Because, Jesus, Vince, this, you and I, this used to be the easy part. This used to be the one thing I could count on, and now - “ He looks away from Vince’s wide, increasingly fear-filled eyes. Eric’s own eyes are starting to burn. “It’s so fucking hard. Everything is so goddamned -”
“All right, you don’t have to - ” Vince says, and he grabs his arm but Eric doesn’t let him pull him in.
“I didn’t even have anywhere else to go today,” he says. “It’s your house, I couldn’t go to the guys because, Jesus, Drama’s your brother, I can’t even go to a goddamned motel because it’d make the news and fuck things up. Christ, I can’t even go - I don’t even have a home in Queens anymore.”
Vince lets go of him. “You really want to be away from me that bad?”
“No,” Eric says, “Jesus, no, I don’t - I’m just - I’m saying, Vin, you’re all I’ve got, right now.” His voice breaks, indignity on top of indignity, and he clears his throat. “And the last couple of weeks, I don’t - we haven’t even - “ He clears his throat again. He feels dizzy, tired, his mouth dry, his eyes a little moist. He falls back onto the couch, puts his elbows on his knees, and risks a look up at Vince. He still looks scared, worried, tense, and above all of that, like he wants to help, still holding his hands out awkwardly. “You and me,” Eric says, his voice now rusty, wet, “this is all the family I’ve got, anymore. You’re it. You’re all I’ve got.”
“Hey, that’s not true.”
“It is,” Eric says. He rests his head in his hands. “It really feels like it is.”
He feels Vince’s arms on his shoulders, and he looks up, sees Vince crouched in front of him. “E,” he says, and then he shakes his head, slowly, like he doesn’t know what to say. That’s fine, Eric doesn’t know what to say, either. He closes his eyes, and Vince moves closer, so they’re in a weird embrace, Vince’s arms around him, Eric’s head on Vince’s shoulder.
“Tell me what I can do,” Vince says, his voice close enough to feel warm. Eric shrugs. He can’t think of anything. He doesn’t want to think at all. “Do you want to go home?” That sounds OK, so he nods. Vince draws back but cups his face, looks him in the eyes for a second, kisses his forehead. Eric knows, he remembers, that Vince loves him, that Vince wants things to work, that he’s there to help, that Eric can, if he needs to, lean on him for a while; he meets Vince’s eyes and nods, the closest he’s got right now to a thank you. Vince pulls him up, and Eric keeps a grip on his hand, looking at that instead of into Vince’s eyes.
“I gotta get some sleep,” he says, rubbing his forehead. “I just, I’m going out of my mind.”
“I’ll help,” Vince says. He keeps an arm around Eric the whole way downstairs, where Turtle’s waiting in the parking space next to Eric’s. He doesn’t say anything as they climb in, and Eric’s grateful. Vince tells him to take them home, then he pulls Eric close, and Eric rests his head on Vince’s shoulder. He doesn’t move, even when they pass through the cameras at the gate.
That night, Vince gives him one of the sleeping pills he used to help him get his schedule turned back around after their last movie, and Eric falls into a dreamless sleep that lasts for about ten hours. He wakes up knowing they’re already late to meet with Shauna and finds the bed empty next to him. Vince has left a note on the kitchen counter.
You needed the rest, it says. I’ll see you at lunch. DON’T WORRY. V
Eric thinks he should call and check in, and then he remembers that his phone is in his car, which is at his office. “Yeah,” Vince says, when Eric calls from the landline, “think of it as a forced day off.”
“I seriously have stuff to do.”
“I seriously don’t want you to have a heart attack before we’re even forty,” Vince says.
“How’m I supposed to meet you for lunch without a fucking car?”
“I’m bringing lunch to you,” Vince says. “Take a bath, get a beer. Relax.”
“Get a beer? It’s -” Oh. It’s one in the afternoon. Eric clears his throat. “OK,” he says. “Uh. I’ll see you in a bit.”
He takes a shower instead of a bath, but he does get a beer, and because it’s May and it’s hot, he takes it out to the pool. Forced day off? Fine, he thinks, stripping off his shirt and diving in. He swims the length of the pool twice, then climbs into a floating chair and paddles to the side where his beer is sweating and waiting for him. He closes his eyes, sips the beer, and tries very hard to think about nothing.
“Now that’s what I like to see,” Vince says when he walks through the back doors. He’s carrying a big white paper sack in one hand and two bottles of beer in the other, and he sets them on one of the lounge chairs. He strips off his shirt, and Eric smiles.
“I was just thinking the same thing.”
Vince doesn’t even change into trunks, just gets in wearing his drab khaki shorts and walks over to where Eric’s floating. Eric bends down to kiss him, and that somehow turns from a greeting into a marathon that doesn’t stop even once Eric’s fallen back into the pool. The water is cold against his sun-warmed skin, but Vince’s body is hot under his hands. They back up until Eric’s pressed against the wall, a jet blowing into his thigh, and he hops up onto the edge to get away from it and to give Vince better access to his dick. Vince doesn’t waste any time getting his wet shorts off, and OK, Eric’s willing to admit maybe they haven’t been having enough sex recently because he comes in about a quarter of his usual time. Vince hefts himself up next to Eric, and when Eric can pay attention again, he leans against Vince and can see that Vince is still hard.
“You want -?”
Vince shakes his head and kisses Eric’s neck. “Later,” he says. “Lunch is getting cold.”
Lunch is supposed to be cold - it’s curried chicken sandwiches and chips - but Eric doesn’t complain. He’s exhausted, from the sun and from Vince, and after they’ve finished eating, all he wants to do is nap. Vince is stretched out on the next lounge chair over, looking pretty sleepy, too. Eric sits up and taps his knee. “Come inside,” he says.
“Why?”
“Because I’ll burn out here,” Eric says, and Vince nods and follows him inside. Eric strips off his wet shorts in the bathroom and changes into a dry pair of sweatpants, and when he walks out Vince is in clean boxers, draped over the couch in the living room. Eric climbs onto the couch and Vince shifts back, and Eric falls asleep with Vince’s arms around him, Vince’s chest warm against his back.
He wakes up alone on the couch, but tucked under a blanket. It’s too hot, but he knows it’s Vince’s way of showing he cares. Eric stays put. He knows once he gets off the couch, they’re gonna have to talk, and he’s just not up for it.
Vince walks in a few minutes later and says, “Hey, you’re awake,” and walks over. He puts his hand on Eric’s shoulder and kisses his cheek, and Eric realizes he’s treating him a little bit like he’s got a cold or something. It’s kind of sweet, and kind of weird. “How’re you feeling?”
“Fine,” Eric says, even though that’s not quite accurate. He clears his throat, sees Vince’s earnest expression, and looks away. “Actually, uh, would it be OK if we didn’t, uh, talk yet?”
“At all?”
“I mean about yesterday, and - everything.”
Vince shrugs. “That’s actually part of the Don’t Worry plan.”
Eric smiles. “Best plan ever,” he says.
“I thought you might like it.” Vince stretches out beside him, reaches over him for the remote control. He flips to ESPN.
“Can we - is it against the rules for me to ask how the meeting with Shauna went?”
“It went fine,” Vince says. “Typical interviews and bullshit to do before the movie. Press rounds at the Chateau on Saturday. Letterman on Monday, with the same rounds out there.”
“In New York.”
Vince nods. “Just a couple of days.”
Eric thinks about that for a second, and he feels sad. It used to be that if they were headed out East, they’d schedule at least a weekend, time to see their families. Time for him to see his mother and for Vince to see his. Now, that won’t be possible. They have to get back here for the premiere and more press. Still, time in New York will be good. He opens his mouth to say that, to mention he can maybe even check in on the house while they’re there, get some business done, and instead he hears himself say, “I miss my mom.” And even as he says it, the tight, terrible feeling swirls back up in his chest, and his throat gets a little tight. He can’t yet picture going to New York without seeing his mother there.
Vince’s arm gets briefly tighter around him. “I know,” he says.
“You do?”
He nods, and Eric feels Vince’s cheek rest against this head. “You’ve been pretty sad,” he says.
“I have?” Vince tightens his arms around him again. “I - I guess,” he says.
“I thought it was me, for a while,” Vince says. “But then, after yesterday, I figured it out.”
“I thought we weren’t gonna talk,” Eric murmurs, closing his eyes. His voice is scratchy; his throat is starting to ache.
“You brought it up,” Vince says, and kisses his neck. “It’s OK. We don’t have to. You don’t have to say anything more.”
Eric nods, just once, and then he grips Vince’s arm and swallows hard against the rising lump in his throat. If a few tears squeeze out, no one sees it but him. No one but him, and Vince.
The next day, Vince has to get a haircut and meet with his stylist before Leno, which conflicts with a scheduled therapy session. He says he doesn’t mind canceling - and would have been doing so anyway, because therapy before an interview was a recipe for disaster - but Eric volunteers to drive over and tell Margot in person while Vince is at the hairdresser. He tells himself it’s just to apologize for walking out the other day, and because he doesn’t want her to think that Vince is with a guy who flies off the handle or anything, but by the time he’s on the couch he’s not even particularly lying to himself about that anymore.
“How long ago?” she asks, when he mentions that his mother died.
“October,” Eric says. “So, eight months, I guess.” He rubs his chest, nervously, waiting for the big swell of anger or emotion to rise up again. He’s feeling frighteningly empty today, empty and a little raw, and he wonders if maybe this is not the way to come to therapy. He tells Margot that, and then he says, “Vince says I’ve been kind of sad.”
“Do you think that’s accurate?”
His gut reaction is to say no. He’s been tired, he’s been stressed, he’s been angry. Sad doesn’t seem like the right word for the last few months. A guy with his life shouldn’t really be sad, should he? But that word - it comes close to what he’s feeling, down underneath everything else. “I don’t know,” he says, shrugging, and she smiles, just faintly.
“Well, that’s a good place to start.”
He meets Vince and the guys at Le Petit Fours for lunch, and they all walk in together, a tight foursome like always and no one seems to really be looking at them. When they leave, though, there are a few photographers clustered by the curb, and they call out his name and Vince’s, and Vince stops and says, “Guys, lay off, can you? There’s nothing to see here.” When Drama suggests they stop by Barney’s to get Vince a new shirt for his upcoming interviews, Vince says, “Nah, let’s lay low,” and Eric feels both embarrassed and grateful.
“You taking it easy on me, now?” Eric asks when they’ve dropped the guys off and are headed home.
“One thing at a time,” Vince says.
That night in bed, Eric says, “It’s not you. None of this is you.”
Vince props himself up on one elbow and looks down at him. “I haven’t exactly been making things easier on you.”
Eric rubs his face. He can’t quite look at Vince when he says, “Margot asked me if I was, uh, she thought I might be, like, thinking about - suicide.”
Vince’s hand falls gently on to Eric’s forearm. “Yeah,” he says.
“Were you worried about that?”
“No,” Vince says, then he says, “Not that. But - worried. I don’t know. I didn’t always know what was going on with you, the last few months.”
“I never thought about that,” Eric says quietly. “I wouldn’t ever leave you like that. OK?”
“Yeah,” Vince says, and he kisses Eric’s shoulder, rests his cheek there. “I know.” They lay there for a moment, Eric appreciating the even, soft lift and fall of Vince’s breathing. “Are you going to see her again?”
Eric nods. “After we get back from New York. Maybe once a week, for a while.”
“She’s very good.”
“So I’ve heard.” He turns a little, so they’re nearly face-to-face. “I swear it’s not you. You’re the best thing -”
“I love you, too,” Vince says, and pulls Eric close, so it’s easy, it’s actually not hard at all, for him to sleep.
The thing is, he doesn’t really feel better - if anything, realizing what the problem is has made him feel even worse, more off-balance than ever, because he can’t help thinking that it’s something that can’t be fixed. His mother isn’t going to come back to life just because he misses her. Vince and Margot both tell him the same thing - give it time - but he doesn’t have time to mourn. He doesn’t even hardly have time to breathe. The movie release is upon them, and that week is packed. Vince is scheduled to tape appearances on six different television shows over the course of the next two weeks: Leno, Letterman, Conan, Ferguson, “The Today show,” and “The Daily Show.”
“That’s a lot of time in New York,” Vince says.
“Oh, and TRL, did I forget that one?” Shauna asks.
“Seriously? Next, you’re gonna say ‘The View.’”
“No way am I putting you up against those bitches,” she says. “That’s a recipe for disaster. No. If you’re still sticking to this thing where you think you’re gonna get away with just talking about the movie, then these are the shows you do. Lauer might try and give you a hard time on Today, but you can probably laugh him off. Monday you have press at the Chateau here, Tuesday in New York at the Plaza.
“Sure,” Vince says. “Whatever you think.”
Eric knows he should be worried about the interviews, but he can’t seem to focus on it. Vince is a pro, he knows how to handle these guys, and he knows the movie is a big deal. Shauna’s handling all of the pre-interview stuff, planting a bunch of stories that will just come directly back to the movie. At dinner that night, Drama asks Vince if he’s worried about all of the interviews. “You wanna run through some stories or something, want me to pretend to be Leno? Or, I do a killer Letterman.”
“Nah,” Vince says. “It’s gonna be fine. I’ve done it before, right?”
Drama gives him a funny look, but Eric just shrugs. “Bro, you know they’re gonna wanna talk about you and E, right? I mean, no one’s interested in hearing about the movie.”
Vince shrugs. “It’s not that hard to say it’s none of their business,” he says.
“These guys do this for a living,” Drama says.
“So what? So do I.”
“I mean, they can make it pretty fucking awkward for you. I remember once, I was on The Daily Show -”
Turtle snorts. “When were you on the fucking Daily Show?”
Drama straightens his shirt, sits up like he’s offended. “I used to drink with Kilborn, sometimes, back in the day.”
Eric rolls his eyes. Vince is looking at him. “You think I should be worried?” he asks.
“No,” Eric says, almost automatically. He thinks, actually, they should both be worried, but he’s too tired to do it, and if Vince isn’t worried, well, all the better. “It’s gonna be fine.”
Drama and Turtle are bickering, now, about who was better on ESPN, Kilborn or Olbermann. “E, seriously,” Vince says, his hands dropping onto Eric’s shoulders. “Do you want to stay home?”
“What?”
“You’ve been real quiet all day. Is it the city?”
Eric looks up at Vince, who has on his best concerned face. “I swear, I’m just worried about the movie stuff,” he says, feeling himself blush a little.
“OK,” Vince says. “Then stop, because you’re gonna mess my head up, talking about this stuff.”
Eric nods, and he forces a smile, puts his hand on Vince’s leg under the table as he turns to tell the guys to knock it off. It’s going to be fine, he thinks. It has to be.
Next.