up okay?”
“Well, I’m out of that damned apartment,” I said. “That’s progress.”
David lived in an apartment perched high above Fifth Avenue with a panoramic view of Central Park. You probably know the names of most of his neighbors from the society columns, or People, or at least the Page Six column in the New York Post. On the few occasions I’d been here before, I usually stood slack-jawed, gaping at the grandeur. The wide-open living room, broken up only by a small grouping of chairs, couches, and end tables surrounding an oak entertainment center; the expensive collection of artwork tastefully displayed on the walls; the terrace overlooking the park; the bookshelves lined with dust-free first editions…
But today I was sleepwalking, so I simply slumped on one of his couches and stared at the floor.
Each year, David selected a new color theme and had the apartment completely redecorated. Recently, he’d entered what we at PMC jokingly called—behind his back, of course—his Blue Period. With the exception of the woodwork and the always-polished-but-seldom-played Mason and Hamlin grand piano tucked in one corner of the living room, everything—the walls, the furniture, even the carpet—was a shade of blue.
How appropriate. So was I.
He poured a couple of vodka and tonics. “Well, now that you’re ambulatory again, I hope you’ll be able to join us at Palmer/Midkiff/Carlyle. We’ve missed you.”
“Sorry. But I’m snapping out of it.”
“That’s what you’ve got to keep doing, dear. Keep moving. You know…life goes on, you’ll find someone else, and all those other tired clichés.”
“I guess. But it still hurts.”
“It’s supposed to hurt,” he said, still mixing. “When it stops hurting, you’ll be as emotionally dead as half the other gay men in this town, and you’ll lose your creativity and therefore your livelihood. Then you’ll have to work as a waiter, and the last thing we need in this city is another emotionally dead gay waiter. So let it hurt, Andrew. Let it hurt for me.” He handed me my drink, moved near to me, and almost whispered, “I saw him last night.”
“Ted?” I heard myself ask breathlessly. “Where?”
“Walking. In the Village. Alone.” His voice fell low, and he added, “And he didn’t look happy.”
“Did he look depressed?” I asked with too much eagerness, because if he did, then maybe the affair with Nicholas had already fizzled.
“Uh…not particularly.”
My heart sank. “That’s just the way Ted usually looks. Sort of blank.”
“Yes, but he didn’t look ecstatic!” said David, as if this was proof of something. Which it wasn’t.
“I’m sure he’s had an ecstatic look on his face more than a few times over the past week.” I felt the pain begin to well up again.
David slumped down into a chair, clearly not wanting to probe any deeper into emotional topics that we both knew were basically unavoidable.
In an effort to change the course of the conversation, David asked, “Are you writing again?”
I almost laughed at the silliness of his question. Couldn’t he see that I was totally absorbed in my own misery?
“I haven’t exactly felt creative recently,” I said bitterly. “Who can write with all of this shit going on?”
“Maybe the writing will help you work through it.” Apparently, David was under the assumption that his accidental role in life as the scion of the founder of a publishing empire qualified him as an expert in the therapeutic applications of writing. “And who knows? Maybe this experience will make you a better writer. Maybe it’ll give you more depth.”
“Excuse me?” It sounded to me as if I was getting a little unneeded and unsolicited armchair criticism. “What’s wrong with my depth?”
“Don’t take it the wrong way, Andrew. Don’t be so touchy. I mean, we have had this conversation before. I just thought maybe this Ted thing would…well, you have to admit your style is a little light.”
“It’s supposed to be light. I like writing humorous, enjoyable books. I’m not Ayn Rand.”
“Of course you’re not, dear. People buy her books. Maybe that should tell you something.”
“I’m sorry you’re not happy with my sales. But I don’t know what else I can do.”
“I’m just thinking about you,” David said. “Do you want to be remembered as insubstantial?”
I threw up my hands. “Listen, David, I’m really not in the mood for this conversation. Why don’t we just drop it? You don’t like my books—”
“I didn’t say that!”
“And I’m not in the mood for your criticism. So, let’s just agree to disagree.”
“Fine. All I was trying to do was point out that there could be a positive aspect to Ted leaving you.”
“Let’s drop it,” I said again, regretting my visit.
After we stopped discussing Ted and my writing style, we quickly discovered that we didn’t really have anything to talk about. Not that evening. Every conversation seemed to wind around itself and come back to touch on Ted. The fall social events, vacation plans, the price of lumber in Estonia…Ted managed to work himself into every facet of life.
Falling in love is easy enough. Why does falling out of love have to be so hard?
“You need to find yourself a new man,” said Denise Hanrahan a few weeks later as we killed time over coffee. It was early October, and noticeably colder. “It’s been a month, Drew, and he’s not coming back.”
“Easier said than done. But it seems like all the good men in this city are married or straight.”
“Oh? I hadn’t noticed.”
Denise grimaced at her own remark. It had been bad enough when she’d learned her boyfriend Carlo was gay—or, as he claimed, bisexual—a few years earlier, but when Perry came out to her the following year after their fourth date, she claimed she was swearing off the men of Manhattan forever.
I knew the feeling.
Love wasn’t playing fair with either of us, of course, but it was especially unfair to her. At thirty-five, Denise could still pass for ten years younger. She was attractive, fit, a sparkling conversationalist, and an undyingly loyal friend. Her only problem was that she couldn’t attract the attention of heterosexual men…which, as a heterosexual woman, she considered to be a big problem. Spending a lot of time with me probably didn’t help, of course.
“It took me so long to find Ted,” I said. “It took years. I mean, you’ve known me for fifteen years. How many men have you known that I was serious about?”
“So, it’ll take you some time,” she said, pulling back a loose ribbon of wavy dark hair. “What’s your rush? There are a lot of single people, and they aren’t throwing themselves in front of the subway. Take your time. And let’s face it, I know you think the good one got away, but how good was he if he dropped you overnight for a kid?”
I stirred my coffee distractedly, recognizing that her logic made far more sense than my emotions. She was right. How could I be moping about Ted, glorifying the memory of our relationship, when the bastard didn’t even have the decency to give me a proper good-bye? Just a few short sentences bleeding into a paper towel, which, instead of throwing it out as I should have done, I still kept in a safe place and treated like it was the Declaration of Independence.
I tossed a few dollars on the coffee shop counter. “Let’s move.”
“Where are we moving to?”
“To