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Cordially invited? Really?
Tom’s first instinct is to toss it into the trash. Cordially invited my ass . Imagine after all these years, Gregory Fuckin’ Hirsch is getting married, and he sends an invitation to Tom. Tom, to whom he hasn’t spoken since that big fight three years ago. Tom, who told him he’d be better off never looking back. Tom called him Lot’s wife, if he remembers correctly.
No, he’s not going to the fucking wedding, no matter how cordially he’s been invited. And of course they’d choose this cardstock, Greg and… Chet? Really? The guy’s name is Chet ? Not even Chester? Just… Chet ?
He presses his foot to the lever of the trash bin and holds the tacky wedding invitation over it, ready to drop. And maybe curiosity gets the better of him, because he wants to know where the wedding is taking place, figures it’s probably some Elks Lodge or church hall or something equally cheap and classless and unoriginal. To his surprise, it’s taking place at the Chicago Botanic Gardens. Alright. Well, I’ll give him points for that . That’s clearly Greg’s doing, he thinks. Botanic Gardens. That’s all Greg.
But no, he can’t go. No. Doesn’t matter how beautiful the venue is or how easily he could book a flight to O’Hare or how much he wants to see Greg and… catch up or whatever. You don’t catch up at their wedding. You catch up when they’re passing through your town, or you’re passing through theirs, or after you’re both fresh off a breakup and you can say you want to catch up, but what you’re really looking for is a dirty, easy hookup that’s guilt-free and neither of you will ever speak of again.
He drops the invitation into the trash.
Cordially invited. What a load of horseshit.
And then, out of curiosity, he wonders who this Chet guy is. He fishes the invitation back out quickly before it soaks up too much of the coffee grounds beneath it. Chet Stevenson. Really? Did he pick the guy out of I’m White Magazine ?
He opens Facebook and searches the name. Three hundred Chet Stevensons greet him with their milky-white complexions, perfect smiles, cargo shorts, receding hairlines. Any one of these fucks could be the man who captured Greg’s unstable, insecure heart. He narrows the search down to Chicago-based residents, which gives him a little under fifty results. And he’s just about given up looking when he sees him.
Not Chet. He doesn’t know Chet. Wouldn’t know what the guy looks like. But he sees Greg, unmistakably Greg, with his arm around a man in a profile picture.
Chet. What a stupid fucking name.
He can’t reason why it hurts him so badly. Or… well, he’ll never tell himself it hurts. Just that it’s strange, this feeling. Strange that he can’t put a name to what bothers him. As if he himself isn’t a strange, Midwestern white man with a ridiculous name.
He scrolls through picture after picture. Chet sampling wines in Michigan, Chet on a fancy little boat with his fancy little shoes. Chet with his parents, and he looks exactly like his father. Poor guy isn’t gonna age well.
And he can pinpoint the exact moment Chet and Greg became a thing. Summer, first summer after Greg left New York. First summer after Tom told him he’d be better off getting away from everything. First summer after Tom thought he’d seen Greg for the very last time outside of dreams and his own wedding photos.
Greg looks happy. He’s got a fine tan and his hair has grown back out a little, and he still wears that same pair of Prada shades Tom bought him all those years ago. Tom wonders what other parts of himself Greg still carries with him everywhere he goes.
He can’t look anymore. He tells himself it’s because he’s resentful of how much better Greg’s life is than his right now. Tom, almost at the one-year anniversary of the divorce, a new job, a new life. He’d probably be unrecognizable to Greg, too. Not that he’s going to give Greg the opportunity not to recognize him, of course. He won’t be giving Greg that satisfaction.
Or… actually…
Maybe that’s a good idea. They say the best revenge is living well, so maybe he should go. Even if it’s just to show Greg that he hasn’t been broken by everything that happened. To show Greg that even if the whole Nero-and-Sporus game didn’t work out, Nero still lived on to rule a new empire.
The online RSVP has few options. No option for a plus one, no option for chicken or fish. Just a little character-limited notation option for those who require accommodations to the menu. Tom considers asking for gluten-free, keto, vegan, something or other just to be a pain in the ass. But he doesn’t want Greg – or Chet, for that matter – to think he’s being difficult on purpose. Even if he wants to be.
June wedding in the Botanic Gardens. Fucking cliché.
…
He had hoped that in the two months between receiving the RSVP and the wedding day, Greg would have reached out. Tom doesn’t need much, tells himself he doesn’t need anything. But he would have appreciated a text. He hasn’t changed his number. Just a simple “It’ll be great to see you again!” or “Hey, man, long time!”
But he’s heard nothing. Which is… fine. Whatever. He’ll still show up with that three-hundred-dollar pair of tumblers from their registry, and he’ll see Greg at the reception, and he’ll make up some story about some girl he’s dating. And it’ll all be alright. And it’ll all be just fine.
Chicago is noisy and busy but still nothing compared to where he’s just come from. An Uber takes him to the hotel where he’s reserved the most lavish suite they offer, just in case it comes up in conversation. Oh, you’re staying at the Hilton, Greg? You poor thing. I’m at the Waldorf Astoria over on East Walton. And if you don’t mind, they’ve booked my spa appointment a little early, so I might need to leave after the ceremony .
He figures arriving to the city two days early gives Greg time to reach out, if he still wants to. Tom’s not really a social media guy, but he geotags a photo of Lake Michigan and posts it to the Twitter account he hasn’t used in almost a year just in case Greg still has his notifications on. He considers a caption.
Nice to be in the Windy Ci
Beautiful Lake views from th
I hear wedding be
No. No caption. The photo is fine as is.
And even though he’s posted that early Thursday afternoon, it’s Thursday night, and he still hasn’t heard from Greg. His photo has gotten nine hundred and seven likes, has been retweeted four times, one of those quoting him with “How many cruise girls did you drown in that one tommy?” and he regrets posting it. He deletes it. And then he wishes he hadn’t, because now it feels like he’s let those dumbasses win.
Whatever.
Greg should still have his number, but then he wonders if he does. It’s been a few years. Greg has surely changed phones a time or two. Contacts get lost. Maybe he should text Greg. Maybe Greg doesn’t have his number.
He scrolls down to the contact in his phone, which is still Sporus . It seems like forever ago that he last said that name out loud, and in fact, the last time he’d said it was during their fight. So he doesn’t text him. He just throws on a suit jacket and heads down to the bistro in the hotel.
He orders whiskey, two fingers… actually, better make it three, and a deconstructed chicken sandwich. Which is just chicken and bread and some leafy greens, really. Probably delicious, but he can barely eat.
He opens Facebook again, checks out Chet’s profile. Greg doesn’t have one, Tom checked, but Chet’s has enough of the both of them to more than make up for it. What, is he scared people won’t think he’s in a relationship if he doesn’t talk about Greg every five minutes? If he doesn’t post those photos of Greg feeding camels at the zoo or Greg laughing at some joke or Greg shirtless in a pool? These kinds of photos are never real life, Tom thinks, and he can even chuckle to himself about it. Stupid Chet, so insecure that he needs to remind everyone and their mother that he bagged some hot young thing.
Because Chet is older. Not as old as Tom, but older than Greg, and considerably so. His blond hair is probably masking a slew of grays and he probably has to take calcium supplements. And Greg is… well, he’s Greg. Young and beautiful and the easiest person in the world to love. The easiest person in the world to make love you, if you want him to. Which Tom for too long told himself he didn’t. Told himself it would be complicated if he did.
He orders another whiskey.
So maybe he should text Greg. Just to be sure he got the RSVP. After all, he doesn’t want to show up to the reception and find that there’s no seat for him. God only knows what kind of person they have planning this thing. If the quality of the cardstock on the invitation is any indication, it’ll be a wonder if they serve anything better than peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and Hawaiian Punch at the dinner. With a cake from Costco and a band they picked up at Chuck-E-Cheese.
He scrolls down to the contact. Sporus. The name teases him before it tears him apart, reminds him of a time when he really was Nero, mad emperor, terrifying and unpredictable. Or maybe he was never that at all. Maybe he was just delusional. Maybe Greg was never his Sporus, but just some court attendant, a witness to the destruction, a survivor of the fall of Rome.
He types.
Hey.
He really should have thought it through more before he sent it. Hey ? Fucking Hey ? That’s the best he could do?
He can’t undo it, but he can change the contact name.
Edit contact.
Change name.
Add new name.
Greg H.
Save.
He pockets the phone and orders a third glass. There’s a man at the end of the bar who looks equally lonely, and for a moment, he considers making conversation. But no, there’s no need. He’ll go back up to his room in a minute and fall asleep, and then it’ll be Friday, and he’ll only have to wait one more agonizing day before--
Hey you.
Tom stares at the message until it’s burned in his mind.
Hey you Hey you Hey you Hey you
Congrats on the big day, buddy! Just got in today.
He wishes he wasn’t smiling. Pathetic. Stupid.
Yeah I saw. Great pic!
He saw? And he didn’t reach out? Didn’t text? Didn’t ask if he needed a guide in the city, recommendations for a good restaurant, if he wanted to grab a drink? Nothing?
He doesn’t even know what to say. Thanks, I took it myself?
Actually, that’ll work.
Thanks, I took it myself.
It’s not a good joke. If he hadn’t had these drinks, he would have thought of something better.
Lol
Hey, weird question, but are you free tomorrow night? Around 7?
Tom straightens his back and looks around the room. Why, he’s not sure, but it feels sneaky. Feels like back in the day when he’d leave his wife sleeping in her bed to take Greg out for dinner. Innocent in nature, wicked in concept.
I’m all yours.
He doesn’t regret answering that way. Because it’s just one stupid weekend, and maybe Greg has been thinking about their last conversation, too. And maybe Tom needs to be daring, because it’s probably the most fun Greg’s had in years. The only excitement he’s known in too long.
Great. Rehearsal is at 7 at the gardens. One of my groomsmen got sick and can’t make it and I was hoping you wouldn’t mind standing in?
Are you fucking kidding me? Three years without so much as a happy birthday or a merry Christmas and he wants Tom to stand up in his fucking wedding?
I won’t match.
If I know you at all, I know you’ve got a black suit with you. And I can get you a matching tie. No one will know the difference
Between Armani and Hugo Boss? Actually, they probably won’t, those people. The kinds of people Greg and Chet are friends with.
And he doesn’t know why, but he texts back It would be an honor . And Greg says Can’t wait to see you, man! And the conversation is over. And Tom wishes he’d never fucking come here.
…
The decorators have started on the Gardens. They don’t add much, but there’s organza involved, and the color yellow, and the wedding party looks like they’ve all been picked from the same magazine where Greg found Chet.
It’s a gorgeous night, though. There’s a subtle breeze and the scent of lilacs and peonies, not a predator bug in sight and a variety of birds. He even stops to admire it all for a moment, the simplicity of it, the true, unmarred beauty.
Greg definitely picked this place.
He doesn’t recognize anyone. He doesn’t see Greg’s grandfather or mother or, thankfully, any members of the Roy family. Maybe they’ll be at the wedding, or maybe they won’t. Won’t surprise him either way.
And, oh god, that’s Chet. He would be able to spot him a mile away. God knows he’s seen his pictures, and even though most people don’t look like their social media photos, Chet looks exactly like his. Smug, self-important smile and everything.
He looks around again, hoping he sees Greg. But Greg is nowhere to be found, and Tom is only too aware of the looks he’s getting now. He sticks out like a sore thumb in this room, and anyway, he’s never been bad at mingling. It’s his job. He can do this.
“Chet?”
Chet turns and looks up at Tom, who stands a good three inches shorter than he does, and smiles. “Yes,” he answers. “Hi. And you are?”
“Tom Wambsgans,” he says, his hand reached out.
Chet shakes his hand. “Tom… what was that last name?”
“Wambsgans,” he repeats.
Chet nods. “And are you… Are you with one of the members of the wedding party?”
“Friend of Greg’s,” he answers. “Old friend.”
“Oh! Right! You’re standing up for him, right?”
“So I hear.”
“Okay, sorry,” Chet laughs. “Forgive me. Things are sort of,” he shakes his hand and gesticulates wildly. “You know?”
“I do know,” he answers. He looks around again. Still no Greg. “So. Congratulations.”
“Thank you!” Chet accepts a glass of champagne from a passing waiter, and Tom does the same. “So how do you and Gregory know each other?”
Gregory. Right. New place, new job, new man, new name. Gregory.
“We…” he thinks for a moment, trying to determine the best way to describe how he knows him. “Used to work together,” he finally says. “Good work buddies.”
“Ah, okay. Waystar.”
His tone does not indicate that he’s heard good things about Waystar. And how could he? Greg has no reason to tell happy stories from his time there, and certainly not after how it all ended. And anything Chet has seen in the news, especially in the past five years, would tend to be negative.
“I’m no longer with Waystar,” Tom offers. “Better off now.”
“I would think so,” Chet nods, and he starts walking as if he just expects Tom to walk along with him. Which Tom does, but only because he hasn’t any clue what else to do. “Gregory doesn’t really discuss his time there, but I’ve seen the news clips. Enough to know it’s not a healthy environment.”
“Well, it certainly isn’t that,” Tom agrees. And then, after a moment, “So how did you two meet?”
Chet sips his champagne, a sly sort of smile forming on his paper-thin lips. “Well, I’m not proud of this,” he starts, “But I was sort of his boss.”
Tom smiles, too. “Oh?”
“Now, in my defense, I made sure he was transferred to another department before I asked him out,” he laughs. “But, my god. Was I ever impatient.”
Tom can’t understand that part. Well, he understand the part where Greg was wanted so desperately that Chet felt impatient, but he can’t understand the part where he was actually impatient. Tom, back in the day, had been nothing but patient. And all the while, he was thoroughly convinced it was worth it.
Until the end. But that really wasn’t a matter of patience.
“You’re a lucky man,” Tom tells him. And he means it, is confident in this. He always thought that whoever it was that got Greg to settle down would be the luckiest person alive. For a very short while, he even thought…
Well. None of that matters now.
“Thank you,” Chet tells him. “I’m aware.”
Of course you fucking are.
“Tom?”
He freezes at the sound. A sound that says his name, but the name is the lesser fact. Because even though it’s only a single syllable, it’s the most recognizable, most blessed sound on earth. And Tom has gone without hearing it for so long that when he hears it now, he can’t even react.
“Tom?” Greg repeats.
And Tom somehow convinces himself to turn around. And there stands Greg, just as beautiful as he ever was. Greg who really doesn’t look like the photos on social media, but even better. Better and better.
“Gregory,” Tom smiles.
“How are you, man?” Greg asks. He reaches out a hand, but Tom literally pushes it away.
“So formal, Greg?” And he pulls him into a hug.
It’s a mistake. He knows that the moment their bodies touch. He lets go.
“I’ve just been chatting with Chet here,” Tom says. “ Chetting , you might say.”
Greg grins, but Chet is stone-faced. The joke was hardly for his benefit anyway.
“Beautiful venue,” Tom tells him. “Gorgeous.”
“Yeah, I- I saw it when I was booking a corporate event. And I just… I thought that if I ever got married, I’d wanna do it here.”
Fucking knew it.
“How was the drive here?”
“No problems,” Tom tells him. “Beautiful drive.”
“Love it here,” Greg tells him. “Never gets old.”
Like your smile , Tom thinks. Like seeing you .
“Oh, there’s the minister,” Chet interrupts. “We should probably go gather.” He grips Greg’s hand and leans in to kiss his cheek, and Greg almost blushes. Tom can’t look.
The group of twenty or so make their way to a small pavilion in the midst of the garden. Decorators have just finished with it, and it’s tastefully festive, though if it were Tom’s wedding, he wouldn’t do yellow. In June?
Soft blues, he thinks. Compliments Greg’s eyes. And maybe a pink that’s just slightly warmer than rose. Because it would look heavenly against Greg’s skin.
The minister introduces himself and explains what they’ll be covering. Tom’s done this sort of thing a hundred times before. They’ll walk arm-in-arm with… oh, well, actually, maybe they won’t. Tom realizes he’s never been to a wedding between two men with all-male attendants.
Okay, maybe he should pay attention.
He just wishes he recognized anyone at all other than Greg. Three men stand on Chet’s side, three (including himself) on Greg’s. They all have names like Max and Jasper and Cam, and Tom wants to go to Greg and hold his face in his hands and ask him, right to his face, what the hell he’s thinking.
He wants to hold Greg’s face in his hands for lots of reasons.
“Tom?”
Greg’s voice again, so Tom listens.
“Hm?”
“He was saying you’ll be last in,” Greg says, gesturing toward the minister.
“Ah. Got it.”
“And then,” the minister explains, “Gregory, you’ll enter from the left. And Chet, you from the right.”
Tom watches as they mimic tomorrow’s grand entrance. Greg is wearing tailored trousers that show off the length of him, graceful as he steps up to the raised area in the pavilion. He’s wearing a sage green polo shirt with a very small sweat stain in the middle of the back. He’s wearing brown penny loafers without the pennies in them.
He’s him, but he’s not.
Tom looks down at his own outfit. Brand new Gucci shoes he’s still breaking in, crisp white Ted Baker shirt, Givenchy separates. He tells himself he’s changed, too. But deep down, he fears he hasn’t changed a lick.
And now comes the part where they act it all out. The men line up behind the hedges and march in single file as they take their respective places at the makeshift altar. And The Chet and Greg walk in again from either side. And the minister tells them this is when they’ll take their vows, and this is when they’ll exchange rings, and this is when they’ll kiss.
And Chet kisses him.
Tom wonders if there was ever a time at his own wedding when Greg, who stood up for him, too, had this same feeling. Whatever this feeling is. Not jealousy, but…
Well. Okay. Maybe it’s jealousy.
Apparently just the one time isn’t enough. They all go back behind the hedges again, and they walk in again, and Chet and Greg walk in again, and Chet and Greg kiss again. And Tom wants to find a tree and throw up in it, because he stopped believing in love and romance a long time ago.
And that’s the only reason, he tells himself.
Finally, they’re dismissed to enjoy their catered dinner. This part is inside a glass-enclosed building with a gift shop, tacky, and Tom’s grateful that he’s found something else to make fun of. Because none of this is serious, right? I mean, how can it be? Greg getting married to some rich, North Side, Wrigley-loving, lake-sailing, new money prick?
Dinner is steak. They get to choose their cut and it’s cooked for them on demand, which even Tom admits is sort of wonderful as catered events go. He orders a sirloin, medium well, with a baked potato and roasted vegetables. And at the table, he is seated beside Greg. As he will be at the reception tomorrow.
Once they’ve eaten and Chet is off in his own little world with his attendants, Tom speaks to Greg. Just Greg. For the first time since…
Anyway.
“You look good,” he tells him. “Happy.”
“I am,” Greg nods. “And you look—”
“Old,” Tom interrupts. “I look old, Greg.”
“No, no. You look great. Seriously.”
Tom smiles weakly and looks around them. “Got you something,” he says. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out two pre-rolled joints purchased from a local dispensary. “I haven’t smoked in years, but since it’s a special occasion…”
“Oh,” Greg raises his eyebrows. “Wow, that’s—That’s really sweet, Tom. I actually don’t smoke anymore, though.”
Tom’s heart sinks. “Oh,” he nods. “Well, that’s alright. I’ve got a balcony at my hotel. Guess I’ll just save these for the next couple of nights.”
Greg nods. “It’s not, like, a morality thing,” he assures him. “Just haven’t needed to, that’s all.”
“You don’t need to make excuses, Greg. It’s fine.” He tucks the joints back into his pocket.
Greg’s leg starts bouncing, and Tom notices, remembers this little tic of Greg’s.
“Got you a gift for tomorrow, too,” Tom offers. “A real gift. From the registry.”
“Oh, you didn’t have to do that,” Greg says. “Really.”
“No, it’s okay, Greg. It’s a wedding. That’s what guests do.”
“Yeah, but I invited you because…” he pauses, looks over at Chet, who’s being praised by some guy in a newsies cap. Then back at Tom. “Because I wanted you to know we’re good,” he finishes. “You know?”
“I was never under the impression that we weren’t.”
Greg looks back at Chet one more time, just briefly. “Actually, you know what? Maybe we should go—maybe we should partake.”
Tom smiles. “Atta boy.”
The two of them travel down the cobblestone, lilac-bordered pathway through the gardens until they find the parking lot, the only area that allows smoking. Greg leads, making his way directly to a sleek black car, which, upon further inspection, Tom realizes is a Tesla, and he leans against it and waits as Tom joins him.
They share a joint, the more sensible option than each taking their own, Greg supposes, and several silent moments pass as they breathe it in, as the cloud forms around them, as they let it relax them. A few times, Greg glances over at Tom’s unease with the joint, his coughing and smiling, smiles that turn to giggles a few drags in. And sometimes Tom looks next to him at Greg, who still smokes as if he’s been doing it all along.
“So how’ve—How’s it been?” Greg says after a while.
Tom lets out a breath as he passes the joint back. “How’s it been?” he parrots. “I don’t know. Fine.”
“That doesn’t sound genuine.”
“Well, what do you want me to say, Greg? That it’s been easy sailing?”
Greg shrugs. “I don’t know. Just that you’re doing okay or whatever.”
Tom watches him, and he waits for Greg to finish and pass it back again. “I’m doing okay,” he answers.
Greg finds himself staring, because even after all this time, old habits die hard. And then he laughs.
“What?”
“You’re such a fucking liar,” Greg answers, smiling and shaking his head in an infuriating manner.
“Oh, I’m a liar?” Tom mocks. “This coming from Greg ‘I don’t smoke weed anymore’ Hirsch?”
“Okay, okay,” Greg nods. “Fair enough. But hey, c’mon. Seriously. How are you?”
“Seriously?” Tom asks.
Greg nods again.
“Seriously, Greg, I’m not great. I mean, I’m fine. I’ve got a good job again, and I’m away from that family – your family, might I remind you – and I’m alright. But I’m not great.”
Greg hasn’t got an answer for this. “Sorry to hear that,” is all he can say.
Tom feels a terrible pang of guilt. It’s Greg’s wedding eve, for Christ’s sake. He shouldn’t be bringing him down like this. And anyway, wasn’t he determined to prove he was doing better than ever now? Wasn’t that the whole reason he came?
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m just a bitter old man, Greg. Ignore me.”
“You’re not that old,” Greg says, and he nudges his elbow against Tom’s.
This is all so easy. This shouldn’t be so easy. This should be awful, terrible, difficult. Greg should be saying “I wish I’d never left” by now, and they should be in the car driving back to Manhattan.
No. That was never an option. Tom thinks that might have just been a dream he had once.
“Are you seeing anyone?” Greg asks.
Tom bites the inside of his mouth. He shakes his head.
“Yeah. I mean, I guess I don’t blame you after what the divorce did to you.”
“Not like you were there to see me through it,” Tom comments.
“I would have been. You know I would have been.”
It’s true, Tom realizes. After all, Greg’s leaving was really Tom’s decision.
“I know,” he tells Greg, his voice soft. “And… maybe this is as good a time as ever to tell you I’m sorry.”
Greg pinches out the end of the joint, which they haven’t fully finished. Years back, Greg would have saved the roach and used it in another joint that he would roll himself, and he would insist that it was still some perfectly good herb in there. But now, he drops it to the ground. He knows Tom isn’t going to save it, and he knows that he’s not going to be rolling any joints in the near future.
“Water under the bridge,” Greg replies.
“No, Greg, I’m serious. I treated you like dog shit that last day. I didn’t listen to you, I didn’t let you choose. I fucking fired you and told you to go fuck yourself.”
“Well, you didn’t put it like that,” Greg reminds him. “But… yeah. Not your best day. Not mine, either.”
Tom feels a raindrop, or what he thinks must be one, fall against his cheek. He wipes it away.
“Do you ever…” Tom starts slowly, his words careful. “Do I ever cross your mind?”
Greg smiles. “Sure,” he answers. “Now and then.”
Tom nods.
“Do I ever cross yours?”
“Never,” Tom smiles.
Greg laughs.
Tom moves closer to Greg, the two of them still leaning against the car. He feels another drop, this one against his forehead. “Raining?”
“Think so,” Greg says.
“Should we head back?”
Greg shrugs. “No rush. It’s barely anything.”
Tom remembers days like this. Lots of days like this. The two of them the outliers at events where no one even noticed they were missing, always finding each other in crowded rooms, always reaching out to one another, pulled together like magnets.
Like now. Right now. It feels like not a day has passed.
“This your car?” Tom asks.
“Chet’s.”
Tom scoffs.
“What?”
“He would own a Tesla.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
Tom just looks at him.
“You don’t like them?”
Tom smiles.
“You don’t like Chet?”
“I don’t mind Chet,” Tom tells him. “Chet seems perfectly fine.”
“Perfectly fine?”
“He seems… suitable.”
Greg shakes his head. “Now, come on. What’s your problem with him. Name one thing.”
“Well, he drives a Tesla.”
“A real thing, Tom.”
“His favorite vacation spot is Vail.”
“Vail’s nice!”
“Vail is nice, Greg. But it shouldn’t be anyone’s favorite.”
“What do you care what his—” and then he stops himself. “Wait. How do you know his favorite vacation spot?”
“Facebook,” Tom answers plainly.
“You stalked him on Facebook?”
“I didn’t stalk anyone, Greg. Don’t be so dramatic.” The rain begins to fall more noticeably now. “I looked him up when I got the invitation. I wanted to know the kind of man he was. I wanted to know what it takes to capture the heart of Greg Hirsch.”
Greg runs a hand through his hair, the rain aiding to slick it back away from his forehead. “Oh come on! You stalked him!”
“I didn’t! I just checked him out! Which is a good thing, Greg, because how could I possibly stand up for you in your wedding if I don’t even know the man you’re marrying?”
“You could just be happy for me,” Greg says. “You could just say 'Hey, maybe the guy Greg’s marrying is decent and maybe I should just trust Greg’s judgment.'”
“He calls you Gregory.”
“So did you.”
“Only now and then. Affectionately. A term of endearment.”
Greg laughs. “And he says it in a different way?”
“He says it like it’s your title. Like it’s something he owns.”
“So now you hate him because of the way he says my name?”
Tom shakes his head. “I don’t hate—Greg, can we go back inside? It’s really pouring.”
Greg reaches into his pocket for the key fob and unlocks the car. He opens the passenger side door. “Get in,” he tells Tom. And then he walks around to the other side and steps into the driver’s seat.
"Where are we going?" Tom asks.
"Nowhere. Just getting out of the rain."
Tom watches Greg, his profile, his clenched jaw and his eyes set forward to the nothing scenery of cars in front of them.
And he does feel sort of silly. Greg doesn't deserve this. Greg is good, and Greg is getting on in life, and hadn't that been all he needed?
"Are you happy?" Tom asks.
"Incredibly happy. Unbelievably happy."
"He's good to you?"
"He's good for me," Greg snaps. "Which is even better."
"Is it?"
"Do you not want me to do this?" And finally, Greg looks at him again. "Do you not want me happy?"
"Don't be an idiot! You know I want you happy, Greg. You know that's all I've ever wanted for you. That's why I kicked your ass out of that hellhole."
"Oh, so that was a mercy thing? You kicked me out out of the goodness of your heart? Is that what you want me to believe?"
"Yes, Greg, as a matter of fact, yes. That is what I want you to believe. Because it's the goddamn truth, Gregory . All I ever wanted for you from day one was for you to be happy."
"And that's why you put me through hell? Dragged me into depositions and bad PR and–"
"I wanted you with me, Greg. I did all of that with you, you with me. I never made you do any of it alone."
"Nero and fucking Sporus, right?"
Tom freezes. Greg is looking at him, Greg has said this, and Greg is sitting there beside him. He smells like cedar and he looks so golden and everything about him reminds Tom of a home he's never had, a home he felt was promised him but never given him. Maybe a home he hasn't earned, certainly one he could never buy. Greg is there beside him, and it feels like that very first day. The jump in his heart rate when their eyes meet. The urge to reach out and touch him.
He opens the car door and steps out into the rain, a fucking downpour at this point. And he can hear Greg rushing up behind him, but he doesn't turn. And then there's a hand on his back, and he's not sure what comes over him. Later, he'll blame it on the weed, the romance of the rain, his own stupidity. But at the touch of Greg's hand, Tom turns. He grips both of Greg's arms, and he pushes him off the path until they're deep amongst the magnolias. Until Greg's tripped over a stray fern and fallen into the mud.
And Greg reaches for Tom's leg as he starts to leave, pulls on it hard until Tom falls, too. He climbs over Tom's body and holds him down, and Tom fights against the pressure. He pushes up against Greg's body and wonders when the hell he got so goddamn strong.
Greg looks down at him, streaks of rain wrapped around his face, droplets falling from the tip of his nose like kisses against Tom's lips.Greg has to wipe the rain from his face, and Tom takes advantage of the break by pushing Greg off his body. He stands, but Greg pulls at the jacket, wraps his arms around Tom from behind him.
They fall to the ground, Tom's weight on top of Greg. Greg kicks and flails and Tom doesn't want to hurt him, so he lets him. He falls off of Greg and rolls with his back to the ground.
Greg stands, covered in mud, breathing heavily. He looks down at Tom, and Tom up at him. He stands there a moment and just watches, and Tom does the same.
And then Tom smiles.
"Yeah," he shouts over the pummeling rain. "You seem real happy, Greg."
Greg shakes his head. "Fuck you," he says, barely audible. He turns to leave, but Tom lies there, breathless, grinning. And then Greg turns back, reaches a hand down to Tom.
Tom accepts, and Greg helps him to his feet again.
"I could have punched you, you know," Tom says. "But I didn't want to mar your pretty face for your wedding day."
"You would never punch me," Greg tells him.
"And you would never leave me lying there. Some things about us will never change, Greg. No matter what we do or where we go. Or who we marry."
Greg looks Tom over, finally lets go of his hand. "You look like shit."
"Well," he says. "First time for everything, I suppose."
They’re laughing. They’re covered in mud and standing in rain. They’ve just wrestled each other to the ground for reasons neither of them could ever articulate. Greg has never felt more endeared.
"You'll still come tomorrow? You'll still stand up for me?"
Tom should say no. He should know better. He should know that after touching Greg's body again, he'll never be able to unthink those thoughts, unfeel those feelings, unlove that man. He should say no, because it will be painful and torturous and terrible. He should say no because he's so in love with Greg it could literally kill him.
"I'll be there," he nods.
"Ten in the morning. Hilton. Room 670."
Tom nods. "Hilton. Right."
Greg watches him another moment. He'll just tell Chet that he got caught in the rain, Tom had car troubles and he had to help, something like that. He'll lie. Wouldn't be the first time. Won't be the last.
…
Tom is wearing his black suit as instructed. He’s tired and he’s a little sore from last night, and in the worst way. A thought occurs to him, something along the lines of I was rolling around with Greg last night and now I’m having trouble walking. It’s as close as he’ll ever get to the real thing.
Room 670 isn’t even a suite. It’s just a regular room. A king-sized bed, a standard tub/shower combo, thirty-seven-inch TV. Doesn’t feel fitting for a wedding day room. He almost feels sorry for Greg. Almost offers to pay for an upgrade.
The two other groomsmen are finishing up, fluffing up their plumage and all that. They introduce themselves to Tom, but he’ll never remember their names, so he doesn’t even try. And when Greg, sitting on the edge of the bed, first sees him, Tom feels like he’s been here before.
Unnamed Groomsman #1 hands the ring box to Tom and makes some sort of joke. Unnamed Groomsman #2 combs his hair in the mirror. And Tom just keeps walking, right through them all, until he’s found the generic black office chair, wheeled it over in front of Greg, and sat himself in it.
Greg looks at him, expression grave.
Tom doesn’t even try pretending to smile. “Big day, buddy.”
Greg nods. “Yeah. Sure is.”
“Gentlemen, would you mind letting the best man and the groom have a moment together?” Tom asks aloud, his eyes never leaving Greg’s.
If they give any resistance, Tom doesn’t register it. He only really becomes aware of everything once he knows he’s alone with Greg.
“You okay?” he asks.
Greg reaches beside him and finds a tie in a shameful shade of yellow. “I’m okay,” he says, his voice quiet. “Nervous, I guess.”
“Why? It’s just the rest of your life.”
Greg lets out a breathy sort of laugh.
“I’m serious. It’s marriage. Anyone can do it.”
Greg shakes his head. “You couldn’t.”
“Right. Well, you’re different.”
“Am I?”
“From me? Yes, Greg. I promise, you’re a much better person than I ever was.”
Greg smiles, small and sincere, and hands the necktie to Tom. “Yours,” he says.
Tom grimaces.
“Chet picked the colors.”
“I had a feeling.”
Greg watches as Tom begrudgingly wraps the tie around his collar, as he loops it around, as his nimble, capable fingers tie the knot.
“Sorry about yesterday,” Greg says softly. “I… I was over the line.”
“Are you kidding, Greg? You were fine. I was unreasonable.”
“No, you… you made some points.”
Tom thinks back to their conversation, as little of the words as he can actually recall. “When?”
“I don’t know,” Greg shrugs. “I’m just trying to be the bigger man here. Can you let me do that?”
Tom nods. “Sure. I can let you do that.” He adjusts his collar and stands to move to the mirror and have a look.
“You really think I have a chance at this?” Greg asks from across the room. “Like… being married? Doing it right?”
“Of course, Greg. Better chance than I ever had.”
Greg stands, and he finds his bowtie. “Help?”
Tom smiles as he acquiesces, takes the bowtie from Greg’s hands and slips it through the collar. “I suppose, all things considered, Chet’s not so bad.”
“He’s great,” Greg smiles. “Really. He’s great.”
Tom folds the edges, makes the necessary, complicated turns. “Great.”
“He’s so kind. Does a lot of charity work and– and he helps me with my bad days. You know, like, when I just need someone to listen. He’s so good at that.”
And Tom has finished the bowtie now. But he pretends he’s still working it out. Because he likes standing here like this.
“I’m glad you found what you were looking for,” Tom tells him. “And I’m sorry that I couldn’t be the one to give it to you.”
“You?” Greg asks.
Tom’s eyes leave the tie, trail slowly up to Greg’s. “Sure,” he says. “You know. Once upon a time, I thought…”
“You thought what?”
“Oh come on, Greg. You’re not stupid. You knew.”
“Wh–What did I allegedly know?”
Tom brings his hands down, safely away from Greg’s body, and he tucks them into his pockets. “Come now, Greg. You know I used to have a thing for you.”
Greg opens his mouth like he might say something. But for several seconds, he doesn’t.
“You didn’t know that?” Tom asks.
“I… no. No, I didn’t.”
Tom raises his brows. “Ah. Well, maybe you are stupid, then. Because I was a fool about it.”
Greg shakes his head. “When?”
“When? I don’t know. Now and then.”
“For how long? When did it stop?”
“Does it matter, Greg? Like you said yesterday: it’s all water under the bridge.” He turns from Greg and over to the mirror, where he straightens his tie and takes another look at his hair.
“When did it stop, Tom?”
“What time does your car get here?”
“When did you stop loving me, Tom?”
“I never said love. You said it, not me.”
“So you never loved me?”
“Well,” Tom watched Greg behind him in the reflection. “I didn’t say that either.”
There’s only so much preening Tom can do. Greg watches him, that infuriating patience of his, waiting Tom out in silence. So Tom turns to face him.
“We grew quite close to one another that last year I knew you,” Tom says. “I suppose that’s when it happened.”
Greg’s breathing is louder now. He can’t seem to control it. Like he’s on the verge of screaming, or tears, or anger. Something is behind those little breaths of his. Something powerful.
“And when did it stop?” Greg asks.
“When does the waterfall become the waiting stream? When does the sunset become dusk? I don’t think it’s a discernable thing, Greg. It’s just something that was, and now it isn’t.”
Greg nods, processing. “It isn’t?”
Tom shakes his head. “I’m over you, Greg. Well and truly.”
“And… and when you were under? Was it… like…”
“Was I in love with you?”
Greg nods.
“Does it matter?” But before Greg can answer, Tom stops him. “Well, it doesn’t. Because it’s the day of your wedding, Gregory. You are going to be married to a man whose name sounds like a sound effect, and you’re going to live in your Lincoln Park brownstone, and you’ll run a little nonprofit with him in your spare time, and you’ll be the pretty little trophy husband. And you’ll be happy, Greg. Deliriously, impossibly happy. And if I ever loved you, if I was ever in love with you, that’s all I ever would have wanted for you. Truly.”
Greg just stares at him for a while. To the point where Tom feels like he might explode. To the point where Tom feels like he might lose his mind.
“Car comes at ten-fifty,” Greg says quietly.
“Well, that’s soon. Should we wait downstairs?”
“No. Not yet.”
And Greg moves closer to Tom. Tom, who stands by the wall, even closer to it as Greg approaches.
“I think… I think maybe I had a thing for you, too,” Greg says.
Greg is close. So close. And when his hands reach to Tom’s chest, Tom closes his eyes. And Greg’s hand has fallen just over Tom’s heart.
And if it weren’t for the ring box between his palm and Tom’s chest, he might be able to feel the way his heart is beating impossibly fast.
Tom opens his eyes. He reaches into his inside breast pocket and pulls out the box. Greg watches as Tom opens it, smiles.
“Nice. Classic gold band. Twenty-four Karat?”
Greg nods.
“Good. Very good.”
“Tom…”
“Greg, I… I think we should go downstairs.”
Greg leans in closer.
“Greg. No.” He pushes him away gently. “You’ll hate yourself. Worse yet, you’ll hate me.”
So Greg drops his forehead to Tom’s shoulder, tucks his face against Tom’s neck. And Tom holds him there a moment, carefully. His Greg, small and fragile. His Greg, strange and curious. His Greg, no longer his. Never really his in the first place.
“I miss you,” Greg whispers.
Tom closes his eyes, allows himself one simple luxury. Namely, that his arms might hold Greg close for a moment, that his hands might soothe him.
And then another moment passes, and Tom lets go. And Greg lets go. And they walk together, silent, down to the car and off to the rest of Greg’s life.
…
It’s a beautiful ceremony. The day after a heavy rain is always especially lovely. No Roy family members attend, and that helps Tom a bit more than he’d realized it would. He stands there and hands over the ring at his appointed time, and he even smiles a genuine smile at the kiss. Because Chet had tears in his eyes when he met Greg there, and Tom thinks to himself that if he’s going to lose Greg forever, he might as well lose him to someone who knows what he’s getting.
He planned to leave early, but Greg had asked him to stay for another drink, then another. Greg had asked him to have a dance with his mother, which he did. Greg had asked him to make a toast, but Tom declined.
“One more dance,” Greg begs. “Come on. With me.”
One last dance, Tom thinks. First and last. If nothing else, they can end this on better terms than they had parted three years before.
He stands and takes Greg’s hand, and Greg leads him onto the floor for Strangers in the Night . Standing there in one another’s arms, slow music softly playing, drinks downed and sky dark, Tom wonders if it was ever really over, that feeling he had for Greg once upon a time.
“Beautiful wedding, Gregory,” he smiles.
“Yeah, well…” he lets the words fade as they sway. “You came through for me. Thank you.”
“Of course, Greg. We’re still friends, aren’t we?”
Maybe it’s not on purpose, or maybe it is, but Greg holds him a little closer when he says that.
They both glance over at Chet dancing gleefully with his sister, completely out of rhythm to the music.
“Hey, if… If I had known,” Greg starts, looking back at Tom now. “If I’d had any idea that you’d felt that way, I think–”
“No, no,” Tom tries to laugh. “Let’s not do all that.”
Greg nods. “Sure. Right.”
“You promise you’re happy?” Tom asks. “With him? He makes you happy?”
Greg looks at Chet again. “Yeah,” he nods. “Yeah, he does.”
Tom smiles up at him, squeezes his hand. “That’s all that matters, then, isn’t it?”
The song is winding down. And Greg knows Tom will leave as soon as it’s over. He’s been trying to leave all night.
“Hey, can I just tell you one thing?” he asks carefully.
“Sure, Greg. Anything.”
“Well, I… I don’t know if this helps or not. Probably not. Maybe I shouldn’t even mention it, but–”
“Greg…”
“No, listen. Listen.” The song ends, but Greg still holds him as it transitions into another. “Tom, I know I married him. And I love him. And he makes me happy. That’s all true. But… but there’s one thing he’ll never have.”
“Should I even ask?”
Greg smiles. He drapes his arms over Tom’s shoulders and looks into his eyes.
“My soul,” he says, his voice low. “He’ll never have that.”
“Well, if you’d like it back–”
“I don’t. I don’t. A deal’s a deal.”
And this is how Tom knows he loves Greg. Because he’s okay with leaving him here in this city with this man and these new friends. He’s happy, even. To know that Greg has a life here. That Greg is happy here.
That once upon a time, Greg might have been an option. That on its own is enough.
“Don’t lose my number this time, Gregory. Okay?”
“I won’t. You’ll hear from me.”
Tom wonders if Greg’s gotten better at lying.
“Can I walk you out?”
Tom agrees. So Greg takes his hand, something he apparently doesn’t mind doing in front of everyone. And he walks to Tom’s car and says goodbye. Thanks him for coming. They hug, and it’s all very chaste. It’s all very normal. No one looking at the exchange would ever imagine that they had thrown each other around in the mud the day before or confessed old feelings that morning. No one looking would guess that they’d been through as much as they had together. That there had been a time when neither of them had anyone at all but each other. That there had been a time when prison sounded better than losing the other, that souls were sold in exchange for empty boxes. That there had been love there, was still love there, would always be love there.
No one would know that they will think of each other on rainy days. And on sunny days. And on winter days and so-so days and in parks and in theaters and everywhere and all the time. No one would know that though they may never see one another again, they will love and be loved by at least one other person in the world. Forever, unashamed. Love no longer a sentence, but a pardon.
Actually, maybe they would.