It Had to Be You by Georgia Clark (iphone ebook reader .TXT) 📕

Henry could clarify his needs, and if it came to it, they’d establish the boundaries for Gorman and Gilbert’s sexual relationship. Possibly—hopefully—the excitement Gilbert stoked in Gorman’s mind would disappear, just as the fear of the boogeyman vanishes when the dark becomes light.

The doorbell rang at 7:22 p.m. Gorman was on his second martini, clearly nervous.

Henry was expecting someone cute—Gorman had good taste. But even Henry had to admit, the young man standing on the doorstep was exceptionally good-looking. Buff and sandy-blond with a cute, chipper grin.

Gilbert stepped inside. “Sorry, just realized I didn’t bring anything. So rude!”

“Don’t worry about it,” said Gorman at the same time Henry said, “No, no, it’s fine.”

Gilbert unzipped a windbreaker to reveal a T-shirt that read Supergay! in rainbow letters, taking in the apartment with wide eyes. “Omigod, I love your place. It’s massive!”

“Crostini?” Henry extended a tray at the same time Gorman said, “What would you like to drink?”

They made it through appetizers, then sat down to dinner. Gilbert praised the food, and the flower arrangement, and Henry’s haircut. By the time they moved on to dessert, Henry’s nerves had settled. He could see Gilbert’s allure—beyond his physical appeal, the young man gave the impression of being slightly in awe of everything around him, while simultaneously exuding unaffected confidence. Gilbert wanted to know all about Henry’s life, from growing up in Flushing to opening a flower shop in gentrified Brooklyn. Gorman was atypically quiet as Henry answered Gilbert’s many questions, even as Henry tried to draw him into the conversation. Poor Gor was probably used to being the sole object of Gilbert’s flattering fascination.

They retired to the living room. Henry put on a Patsy Cline record and splashed brandy into three glasses. Gilbert curled up on the carpet going through the record collection. Gorman and Henry sat on the couch, watching him.

“Ooh, Sam Smith.” Gilbert flipped the sleeve over. “Love them.”

Henry felt pleased. That was his. “You have good taste.”

“Obviously,” Gilbert joked. “I’m doing your husband’s play.”

“Oh,” said Henry, “we’re not actually…”

“Married,” Gorman finished. “Or, um, monogamous.”

Henry gave Gorman an unimpressed look. Not the most elegant way to bring it up.

Gorman returned it with a tiny shrug.

“What about you?” Henry turned back to Gilbert, whose attention was a little too deliberately on the records. “Boyfriend?”

Gilbert shook his head. “I basically just got here, you know? So I’m just, like, having fun. This is really good brandy, by the way,” he added, finishing his glass.

“Let me top you up.” Henry took his glass, heading into the kitchen. Alone for a moment, he placed both hands on the counter, regretting drinking so much during dinner. His head was swimming, and he was half expecting to return to the sight of a shirtless Gilbert poured into the lap of his partner. Which felt one part exciting, two parts bewildering, and ten parts awful.

I’ll say this for monogamy. The rules are much simpler.

A noise behind him.

Gilbert, coming at him fast and hard like a gay Terminator. Gilbert’s mouth was on his, kissing him.

“Oh—ugh!” Henry stumbled back against the corner.

Gilbert looked horrified. “Sorry. Omigod. I thought—”

“Sorry.” Henry touched his mouth, the kiss lingering on his lips. “I didn’t mean—”

“Sorry.” Gorman appeared in the doorway. “What’s going on?”

“I thought,” Henry managed, “we thought you were interested in…”

“Me,” Gorman finished, mortified.

“Oh gosh, no,” Gilbert said in a rush. “No offense, but you kind of remind me of my dad.”

Gorman’s cheeks turned hot pink.

“But if you guys are open,” Gilbert continued, “Henry…?”

“Me?” Henry felt like the underdog nominee whose name had just been read onstage.

“Think about it.” Gilbert started hurriedly backing toward the door, only pausing to slip on his windbreaker. “Thanks for dinner, it was yum. See you at rehearsals next week, Gor.” The front door banged shut behind him.

Gorman’s shoulders slumped. He removed his kerchief and wiped his forehead. The rejection had clearly stripped him of confidence, leaving him looking less vintage, more secondhand. “Well, that was humiliating. What are you laughing at?”

“I don’t know.” Henry wiped a tear from his eye, unsure if it was from hilarity or grief. “I think I’m in shock.”

“Obviously, you’re not going to do it,” Gorman said. “Him, I mean.”

“Why not?”

Gorman blinked. “Because… Well, because…”

Henry picked up his brandy glass. One more nightcap before bed? Why not. “Like Gilbert suggested: I’ll think about it.”

56

There were many differences between dating in your midtwenties versus your (very) late forties. For one, transparency. When Liv and Eliot started hanging out, spontaneity was king and caring was deeply uncool. Both parties outdid each other in portraying who cared less about whether the relationship would “be anything” as the twin forces of lust and anxiety writhed around each other like battling serpents. But Liv and Sam had to make plans weeks in advance, negotiating the demanding schedules of their kids and work and therapy sessions and grocery runs. The mystery was muted. At first Liv wondered if this would make it less exciting. But her bandwidth for exciting was limited, and really, exciting was just another word for “tense.” Transparency was calming. Liv needed calm.

Another difference was pace. They had not yet had sex. When Eliot died, Liv honestly believed she’d never have sex again. Whenever she wanted to feel bad—and that want came often last winter—she’d remind herself of the painful prophecy and dig the knife a little deeper: You are alone. You will always be alone.

Now, her body was starting to thaw. She liked kissing Sam. Very much. He was bigger than Eliot but gentler, less urgent. If Eliot was a lithe and wily cheetah, Sam was a solid, self-assured lion. As the late-summer air took on the texture of fur, tenderness gave way to passion and a primal, driving need that left them panting and hungry and unfulfilled.

“Do you think we’re…” Liv did the top buttons of her shirt up, another fumbly make-out session cut short by Ben calling from his bedroom after a bad dream. “… um… ready—”

“Yes,” Sam said.