Reverberations #20 - the final chapter - Part Two
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If you missed the first part, it's here:
Reverberations #20 - Part One
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Click here for all chapters of Reverberations
Again, thanks to Sandi for the image.
Brian
To be honest I’m fucking exhausted by the time we finally get out of that bed.
But at the same time I feel … like I could conquer the world.
It’s fucking amazing.
We talk about going out to get something to eat, but then somehow that turns into a discussion on where we can have our “house announcement” dinner. So instead we order more room service and start researching restaurants. I’ve got an idea of where we might go, but the first place I think of doesn’t have any private rooms, and that’s really what we want, so we take a while to pick somewhere.
I want to go to Ernie Vallozzi's because, although the food is carb loaded, it’s excellent, and they have a great wine list. But when I suggest it, Justin just stares at me.
“You want to take Deb to an Italian restaurant?” he says. “And have her talking all night about how it’s not as good as her recipe? I so don’t think so.”
I have to admit that he’s right about that, and although I fight against it, I can’t help but notice that he keeps coming back to one particular site. It’s out in the suburbs and looks like some sort of castle or something - I think it’s incredibly fucking kitsch - but I’m the guy who’s buying a fucking mansion, so what would I know? Anyway, he likes the look of it, so we put that top of the list. We add a couple of other possibles.
Then, after a bit of a debate, we call Emmett.
We don’t tell him exactly what’s going on, just ask him if he can come to the loft tomorrow night. And swear him to secrecy. Justin tries telling him that it’s all very simple, and he shouldn’t get any ideas … all the sort of shit that must have Honeycutt’s ears flapping and his tongue already beginning to wag. So then I take the phone and tell him that I’ll cut his fucking dick off if I get back and find everyone gossiping about what Justin and I are up to. I can hear his little head toss and he does this whole, “Darling, a party planner’s word is his bond. We have to know how to be very discreet.”
Then I say, real quiet, “Emmett, we need this to be low key. I don’t want him to have to deal with any more shit right now.”
There’s a slight pause, and then he says, “I understand, Brian. I promise, I won’t say anything to anyone.”
And by the tone in his voice I know he’s heard and understood me and that I can count on him.
Now there’s a fucking strange thought.
Before we finish the call, he asks if I’ve spoken to Deb or Michael today. Which we haven’t. We had the sense to turn all our phones off around about the time we took ourselves into the bedroom this afternoon. When I tell Emmett no, he goes very quiet. I feel something sort of squeeze my chest.
“What the fuck’s wrong now?” I bark. “Is Mikey okay?”
“Yes, yes!” he says quickly. “It’s nothing like that. In fact,” he goes on. “It’s nothing that won’t wait till you get back.”
“Emmett,” I growl.
He sighs. “It’s Ben,” he says. “They’re talking about letting him plead to some minor charge on the grounds that he was unbearably provoked and it was totally out of character and … Deb is having fits about it and saying that he shouldn’t even have been arrested and that she thinks he should go to court and fight it and … neither Carl nor I can get through to her.”
I sigh.
***
Justin
I know that there’s something really bad going on when he pinches the bridge of his nose and says to Emmett, “I’ll be home tomorrow. I’ll try and talk to her then. Just don’t let Ben do anything stupid in the meantime.”
There’s silence for a moment while he listens to Emmett and then he says, “Yeah, well, I’m counting on you.”
Another moment and then he says, very quiet, “Thanks, Emmett. We’ll see you tomorrow night. Around eight.”
Then he hangs up.
He doesn’t say anything for a moment, then finally he looks up at me.
“It’s Ben,” he says. “Seems like they’re trying to get him off with just a slap on the wrist, but Deb’s not having any. She thinks he should get a fucking medal or something.”
Then he says loudly, “Fuck!” and looks like he wants to throw the phone at the wall.
“So … would he have to go to jail?” I ask. “Is that what she’s upset about?”
He sighs and shrugs. “He’d probably get community service or some shit. Like Hobbs.”
By the way he says it, I know that he thinks it’s wrong.
Brian, for all that he’s very strong, and very physical, really hates violence. I mean, he hates it. Especially when it’s someone who’s a lot bigger and stronger, punching the shit out of someone who’s smaller and weaker. Wonder why that would be?
Some people with backgrounds like Brian turn into abusers, they keep the cycle of violence going. Others do the complete opposite and really turn away from it. That’s Brian. I don’t mean that he’d ever back down from a fight. But I can’t imagine him ever deliberately physically hurting someone - especially some old guy half his size.
There isn’t anything I can say, really, so I turn his thoughts back to happier things by asking him what he wants to do about the tuxes. Should we try to get at least a partial refund on them?
He just looks at me like I’m crazy.
Then he laughs and shakes his head. “You’ll need one,” he tells me. “When all important galleries start calling, and you have to attend their fucking pretentious little do’s. You’ll need a decent tux.”
I nudge him. “Okay, that’s me. What’s your excuse?” I ask.
He grins and says, “I have to be your arm candy.”
***
Brian
He giggles when I say that, and that’s it.
Everything else goes out the window, and I dive on him. We haven’t fucked on the couch yet.
Fuck Ben and his troubles; fuck Deb and Mikey and all their shit.
I have this. And here and now, that’s the only fucking thing that matters.
***
Justin
We go for the final fitting of the tuxes. They’re amazing. We both look so fucking good. I hope there is some big occasion soon so that we can wear them. I guess we could wear them to the dinner, but that would be a bit over the top and sort of a waste, really.
Then we get the flight home.
It’s weird.
I mean … I feel like I should be crushed or something …
When we left here on Saturday, we were engaged, we were about to get married. And now we’re not, and …
I feel amazing. Much better than I did then. I feel like … Like we’re really working it out, really becoming who we want to be … as a couple. And that’s not some little faux-hetero ideal. That’s us. Warts and all. He’ll go on tricking when he feels like it; and I probably will too. And that will be nothing - not even a blip.
But we’ll be together, and we’ll have a home … a real home together. Somewhere that Gus can come and stay. Somewhere our friends can come over, hang out. Somewhere I can paint, and he can work and …
Okay, maybe that’s a bit idealized, because he’ll still be at Kinnetik a lot, and I’ll have days when I hardly see him and all that stuff.
But that’s life. That’s what a real life together is.
He calls Deb practically as soon as we get off the plane, but I can tell that doesn’t go well.
So then he calls and arranges to come over and see Gus.
I assume that he’s spoken to Lindsay, but when we get there, there’s just Mel. Apparently Lindsay’s still at work. Brian gets me to keep an eye on Gus and JR while he takes Mel aside and speaks to her, and I hear her say, “Stupid cow. If they give him that sort of deal he should take it. His lawyer must be telling him that.”
They talk a bit more and then Mel says, “Leave it with me. I’ll try to talk to her. You’ll just make it worse. She’s pretty pissed with you right now.”
He shrugs, but I can see it hurts. Why the fuck Deb is mad at Brian because her son in law went crazy and beat the hell out of someone, God knows.
Anyway, we play for a while with Gus, and then head home.
I’d forgotten to take the charger for my cell, so the battery was flat and the first thing I do is to plug it in. While I’m doing that, Brian hits the play button on the machine, and goes through the messages.
Stuff from Sydney about what pieces sold.
Rants from Debbie.
A call from Ben to thank Brian again for arranging the lawyer.
A call from Ted about the insurance - apparently today they finally let the insurance inspectors onto the site.
One from the police saying that they have some leads which they’re following up.
And one from Shana, the Washington Post reporter, asking if I was happy with the article.
Shit!
***
Brian
The article is … fair enough, I suppose. Personally, I’d rather not rehash all that fucking stuff, but I can see what they’re trying to do and if the end result is that bastards like Hobbs get put away instead of having their little wrists slapped and told not to be so naughty, then it will probably be worth it.
It talks about Justin’s art and takes it seriously. Doesn’t make him sound like some sort of special needs “oh, isn’t it amazing that he can do that” case. Makes him sound like a serious young artist. Even takes a swipe at those dickless wonders in Hollywood.
So I guess it’s okay.
Once we’ve skimmed through it he gets on the phone to his Mommy and tells her. Then he calls Sydney who already knows, and is very happy -naturally, since his gallery gets a mention. He asks if he should let Deb know and I just stare at him, so he calls her. She seems to give him a hard time at first but then I hear her shrieks of “Sunshine!” so that’s okay.
I call Kinnetik to double check that Cynthia has everything under control with the Brown account, and may just happen to casually mention it to her when she asks how my day’s been. Then I talk to Ted about the insurance and tell him I may have reconsidered on the rebuilding but that we need to talk, because I’d be wanting to make some changes. And if I happen to mention that the Post article on hate crimes is something that we should take advantage of in getting good will, etc going with the council to help move any necessary building permits along, well, that’s just business.
By the time Emmett arrives at eight, our whole little circle has been calling back and forth like damned dogs baying at the moon.
He’s all excited over it as well, and I have to physically restrain him from engulfing little Sunshine in a whole series of ‘you’re such a brave little hero’ hugs.
But once he gets past that and we start in on the Thai food we’d ordered, he forgets about that and I’m taking bets with myself on how long it will be before he either fucking bursts from curiosity or comes out and asks us why we invited him over.
Before either can happen, Sunshine intervenes and puts him out of his misery.
“We want to hold a dinner,” he says.
Emmett’s eyes bug out a bit further and he squeaks, “What sort of dinner?
“One where people sit down and eat," I snark.
Which earns me a look from the famous artiste and I shut up.
“Well,” he says. Then he looks at me … a sort of ‘what the fuck do I say?’ look that makes me come to his rescue.
“A celebration dinner,” I tell Emmett.
“Over the article?” Emmett asks, understandably confused about why we’d want to celebrate being reminded that some homophobic bastards have twice tried to kill him.
I shrug.
“Over his first show,” I say. “Over the fact that all the pieces that were for sale have sold. Over the fact that we’re all still here to celebrate it.”
Of course, that makes Emmett go a little weepy eyed.
“So … you’ll be waiting till Michael’s out of hospital?” he says, with just enough hesitation to turn it into a question.
I nod and Justin says, “Oh, yeah. Of course.”
Of course. Aside from anything else, Deb would make our lives not worth living for weeks if we didn’t.
“Deb says that the doctors are talking about releasing him maybe on Thursday,” Emmett puts in. “She’s really upset about it … says he’s not nearly ready.”
I sigh. Because of course she’d know better than the doctors, just like she knows better than the lawyers what Ben should do.
Justin looks at me, and I take a breath and say to Emmett, “There is one other thing we’re celebrating.”
He gets all excited and says, “You’re not!”
“No, we’re fucking not,” I tell him. He doesn’t need to know how close we came.
“But we are getting a house,” Justin says. “A beautiful house. You wait till you see it.”
Emmett squeals then, and claps his hands. “Do say you’re going to have a house-warming,” he urges.
Justin is smiling and I find myself grinning back at him. Emmett sees, and gives me a suddenly serious look. Then he fucking pats my knee.
“I’m happy for you, honey,” he says sincerely. “I really am. For both of you.”
“Thanks, Em,” Justin says. “We’ll need you to plan the housewarming, of course. But that won’t be for ages, by the time settlement goes through, and we get it furnished and stuff. So we want to have a house announcement dinner. And have photos of the house everywhere so people can get an idea what it’s like and … can you help us make that perfect?”
Some people might be able to resist Sunshine when he’s like that, but Honeycutt isn’t one of them.
“Of course I will, sweetie,” he says. “It will be absolutely wonderful You just tell me what you want, and then leave it all to me.”
I’d like to tune out the rest of the evening, but if I did, God knows what they’d come up with. Besides, I need to make sure that Emmett gets it that Justin is going to have everything exactly the way he wants it - no matter what it costs.
***
Justin
I suppose it’s just typical of our lives that in the end our big announcement dinner isn’t just about us buying the house - it’s about me leaving for New York.
I mean … Brian finally stops being a total dick and comes to my Prom and we dance, and it’s all perfect and then - Hobbs and his baseball bat.
Brian finally asks me to move in - really asks me, not because I’m damaged, or have no where else to go, but because he wants me there - and the LA thing happens.
So of course just when we finally work out what we want and what we’re doing together - something comes along and bingo! I have to go to New York.
By the time we’re getting dressed to go to the dinner, I’m starting to really freak out. Today’s Friday … I leave on Sunday. I so don’t want to be wasting time with other people that I could be spending with Brian. But at the same time … I want them to see us together. I want everyone to have tonight to remember, to remind themselves that, no matter if I have to go away for a while, we are planning on having a life together. This is just a temporary thing. I want them all to remember so that they can remind Brian.
It’s all happened so fucking fast.
We got back from Chicago and a couple of days after that, they released Michael from the hospital. Things with Ben look like working out okay. Everyone is hopeful that when the case comes up he’ll be able to enter a plea to some minor thing and it will all sort of go away. The guy he hit seems to be recovering, so that all looks like being alright.
Everything was going really well, in fact.
Then, on the Sunday after our weekend in Chicago - last Sunday, in fact, although it seems longer ago than that - the New York Times printed a whole big review of Sydney’s show - mainly featuring my work. I mean, huge color photos, the lot - and the critic raved about it.
I remembered him, and I thought that if he wrote anything at all he’d cane me, because Brian was really rude to him when he thought he caught him checking out my ass.
But he didn’t … he … it was kind of embarrassing, really. Overwhelming.
And then two days later I got a phone call from Sydney. It was about some artists’ co-op in New York who wanted to talk to me. I called the number they’d left with Sydney, and it turns out it’s a sort of student’s studio. They take in new young artists for a year - give them studio space, encourage them to workshop together, learn from each other and organize a couple of exhibitions every year so they can get their work seen.
And they want me.
The problem is, the program starts next week and they say I need to be there by the end of the first week at the latest because they have a couple of “functions” and invite some critics and gallery owners, so they can meet the artists and see some of the ‘before’ stuff I guess - some of the work they’ve already got in their portfolios.
Like I say - the timing is for shit.
If the fucking review had come out a week later, it would have been too late, and … I wouldn’t have had to decide.
Not that there was ever really any choice. I mean, Brian didn’t say anything when I first told him and I thought he was just going to stand back and let me make my own decision. But then the next day he told me I should go, made it clear that he expected me to live up to my promise and not turn down this sort of thing because of him.
I nearly had a melt down, but he wouldn’t let me … he just told me to suck it up, that stuff happens, and we just have to deal. Then he said that it was just a fucking year - not even that - a few months, and that I wasn’t going to be on the other side of the world, or even the other side of the country. He said it wasn’t like when I was in LA and it was too far to come home for the weekend, reminded me that it’s only an hour away by plane.
It was only a day or so later that I realized that he’d been to see Gus and that both Lindsay and Mel had got into his ear about it.
I fucking hate it that they did that. Maybe if they hadn’t then …. But they did, and they convinced him that I “had” to take this opportunity. Made him feel like I’d wind up resenting him if I didn’t. All that shit.
In some ways it is the right thing for me to be doing. But in others …
The truth is that I wouldn’t be going if it wasn’t for the fact that I know he’d never forgive himself if I didn’t. And he’d never stop blaming himself if I don’t “make it” as an artist. Which is such shit, because honestly that stuff really is in the lap of the gods. I’ve seen work by ‘world renowned’ artists that I wouldn’t hang in my toilet. And work by people no one has ever heard of that I think is brilliant. It’s just … luck, a lot of the time.
But he talked to me and made me see how badly it would fuck things up if I didn’t go. It’s crazy, but the way I have to prove to him that he can believe in me, can have faith in me, is to leave him. At least for these few months.
I just don’t know how I’m going to stand it.
But now we’re at the dinner, and all our friends and weird little family are in there and we have tonight to show them how together we are,
Because we are. We really are.
And tonight they’re all going to see it.
***
Brian
It’s been a hellish day at work. Stupid fucking client changing their mind at the last minute about what they fucking want. By the time I get home I’ve got a bitch of a headache and all I want to do is to have a shower and a drink and forget the day ever happened.
So when I first get home, I’m glad that he’s quiet.
But when he doesn’t join me in the shower, I start wondering, and when I come out and he’s sitting staring into space I know something’s fucking not right.
When he tells me, I almost want to laugh. Fucking typical! I just start getting my shit together and now this. But I’ve promised myself that I won’t interfere, that I’ll let him make his own decisions, so I just take him to bed and distract us both from our worries. Besides, it doesn’t sound that big a deal to me - just another form of school really, and I think he’s past that.
But the next day both Lindsay and the she-dog she lives with take turns in telling me what a totally selfish prick I’d be if I let him give up this opportunity. Linsday especially keeps on about what a great reputation the place has for discovering new artists and how it’s such an honor and such a great chance to get exposure in New York, and all that shit.
So when I get home, I sit him down for a chat.
At first he’s all, “oh, it’s no big deal” about it, but when I call him on that he comes clean and says that he just doesn’t think it’s the right time.
“The right time for you, as an artist, or the right time for us?” I ask.
He goes very quiet then. So I have to do it, I have to push him.
“Sunshine,” I tell him, “since the beginning … what’s worked for us … is that we go for it … everything … no second best, no holding back.
"When we started, and I wouldn’t give you the time of day … you just came after me. At Babylon, at Woody's, you were there, in my face, you wouldn’t let me walk away.
"You went for it with that damned fucking club, with Hobbs, with the … when you asked me to your fucking Prom. We danced in front of all the fucking straights and you mightn’t remember it, but we were fucking fabulous.”
I want to stop there, to just remember for one moment how fucking beautiful he was that night, not to think of the rest … but … I can’t stop … I have to make sure he understands this.
“We went for it with Stockwell, and yes it cost me my fucking job, and you your college career but we did it anyway.”
He mumbles something, his head down, and I grab his chin and make him look at me for a moment before I acknowledge it … “Yes, even with the fucking fiddler.”
He bites his lip and I give him a wolf grin.
“Do you seriously think we’d be here, where we are today, how we are today, if you’d gone on putting up with all my shit? If you hadn’t had the balls to leave. And the even bigger balls it took to come back?”
He looks into my eyes for a long moment and then gives me a ghost of a smile. But the devil is back in his blue eyes.
“When I found out about the cancer …” he stiffens again, his hands tightening their grip on my hips. I look right into his eyes.
“I was tempted to fucking bail,” I tell him bluntly. “But I didn’t. I took it on. And you took me on, and we battled our way through it.
“You went for it in LA, and even if the fucking assholes let it drop, you still put yourself on the line for it. And we fucking learned that we can survive a few fucking months apart if we have to.”
He looks at me then, all right. Because he knows what a chicken shit I am, and how close I came to giving up on us. But he has to know that I learned something in those fucking months he was away.
“The thing is, whenever something has come along, we’ve taken it on. We’ve never backed away from anything, never turned our backs on a challenge.”
I grip his shoulders even harder.
“Justin … that’s what makes us who we are … it’s what makes us work. We can’t change the way we operate now. That’s what will make us fucking fall apart. If we start backing away from the challenges.”
His eyes fill up then and he leans against me and then all I can do is hold him.
That’s all I want to do for the rest of the week.
But he has to get fucking organized. Aside from finding somewhere to live (which turns out to be with some friend of Daphne’s because he won’t fucking let me pay for a decent damned place), he needs to get his art stuff shipped and all sorts of shit.
Cynthia’s replacement helps to organize all that. It hadn’t fucking occurred to me that promoting her would mean that I didn’t have her to rely on but the new one is sufficiently terrified to be on the ball.
But all week there’s doesn’t seem to be a moment when we’re not in the middle of organizing something - the house purchase, the fucking insurance, some in home nursing for Mikey, his move, this fucking dinner.
Everything.
And now it’s Friday night, and the dinner, and tomorrow we’ll spend together and then Sunday …
But I’m not going to think about that now. Right now we’re going to host this dinner, and show off the photos of our fucking new house, and tell them about this glittering new career opportunity that’s come up for him and make like it’s all according to plan.
Which maybe it is. Someone’s plan.
But it’s sure as fuck not mine.
Because the only plan I’ve had in my head since he got back from LA was to somehow keep him here. Only I can’t do that.
I have to let him go. Have to smile and wave goodbye and make him believe that I believe he’ll be back.
Otherwise he won’t leave, and I couldn’t live with that.
Oh, well. Right now it’s showtime.
***
Epilogue
Justin
I’ve been in New York nearly a month when I hear about Lindsay and Mel.
Apparently they’d been planning their move from even before I started planning mine. Not that I had much time to plan. But they did. They listed the house and everything before they even discussed it with Brian and Michael. And then did the whole ‘oh, we won’t go if you don’t agree’ thing. Except that when Brian didn’t agree, Lindsay guilted him into it.
None of which I even knew until Debbie called me to bitch about them.
I was so fucking angry. I still am. Brian eventually called and talked to me about it last night. After they’d left. Not that he said much. But I know how gutted he must be.
If he wasn’t due to arrive this evening for the weekend I’d …
I don’t know. I’d nothing. That’s the most fucking frustrating part. Brian had to say goodbye to Gus yesterday and who knows when he’ll see him again and I can’t do any fucking thing about it without making it worse.
Because, like I have to keep reminding myself, Brian doesn’t have any rights to Gus at all. No right to say that they can’t take his son off to another country. No right to demand to be allowed to visit him. Nothing.
So that pair of cunts can just take Gus and ask Brian to stay away for “a while” so that Gus can get settled and neither of us can do anything, because if we call them on their shit they can just tell us to stay away permanently, never let Brian see his son at all.
Fuck!
I used to really like Lindsay, and Mel was okay, most of the time.
But this is all such shit.
And I’m stuck here in New York and the only thing I can do is be here. I mean, when Brian comes to me, I can be here for him. At least, coming here, he can get away from all this shit and we can just be together, and try to forget everything else for a while. A bit like it was in Chicago.
Except there, part of it was knowing that we were going home and getting the house and really getting on with being together.
But here … here I lie awake all night beside Brian, not wanting to go to sleep and miss one single moment of being with him. Because when he goes home on Monday, I won't be with him. Not for a fucking truckload lot of Mondays.
They talk about ‘if you love something, set it free’, but no one ever talks about how it feels to be the one set free - how you have to break your heart and fly away just to prove that you’ll come home again.
But because I love Brian, and because I understand that he needs me to be all I can be …
All I can do is try to make this work, try to be some sort of success here, and make him proud of me.
And more than anything, try to hold it together, hold us both together, till it’s time for me to come home.
Like Brian says, “It’s only time.”
I can only hope he’s right.
End Reverberations
Okay, if that's all too sad ... remember, it leads to this:
Homecoming