Cut to the Feeling (Big Boys Small Spaces #2)

1. Bryce

ONE

brYCE

Sure, men are lovely, but does anything top spending quality one-on-one time with your dog?

Especially when that dog is the size of a miniature horse and there’s so much more to love.

Bobo clocked in at one-hundred-twenty pounds at his last checkup—on the high end for a Bernese Mountain Dog.

We’re both in our Big Boy Era. He stands just over two feet tall, and much like his dad, he tends to command the attention of those around him.

“C’mon, Bobo! You already peed on that tree.

No need to belabor the point.” I give his leash a gentle tug as we continue down the street, and Bobo breaks into a determined trot.

Busy New Yorkers part for us, which is understandable since it appears a fluffy Seabiscuit is coming right for them.

“We want to get these home to Anthony while they’re still warm! ”

Heat emanates from the bag of cardamom buns in my other hand.

Bobo’s gait quickens as we get closer to our apartment building. One woman jumps out of the way and shoots me a look, and I mouth “sorry” to her .

I didn’t know he would get this big—I study the intricacies of music video choreography, not dog breeds.

When Anthony and I first brought the relatively small puppy home at six weeks, we had no idea how large he’d grow.

Looking back, the fact that he had paws the size of dinner plates probably should’ve raised some suspicions.

By the time Carl, our super, realized how massive Bobo would become, he was already smitten.

Another few blocks of charging down the sidewalk and smiling awkwardly at annoyed glances and we arrive at the Bigby. We live on the sixth floor. Of a walk-up. Now comes the real test of cardio endurance.

We love most of our neighbors. Marsh and Data downstairs are hashtag gay goals.

Marsh is a fantastic cook; Data loves to treat me to brunch.

Plus, they love dog sitting. Of course, Mrs. Lee on the second floor frequently scolds us.

(Apologies, but some of us receive packages too large for our small mailboxes.

We sometimes forget about them, and they end up sitting in the lobby for a while.) Still, even she can’t resist Bobo’s charm.

Luckily, as an almost professional dancer, I’m in excellent shape. Bobo sure doesn’t mind. Perhaps it calls back to some instinctual desire to climb the Alps.

“Anthony?”

I close the front door and release Bobo from his leash. He bounds off for his water dish.

“We brought you a gift.”

I hold out the bag of buns, hoping the scent attracts my hot boyfriend.

“We took the long route through the park because I wanted to visit Ronaldo. He still refuses to run away with me.” I ate a soft pretzel from Ronaldo’s cart before picking up more carbs.

They’re as big as my head, and Ronaldo’s accent makes me think impure thoughts.

Though he’s a happily married father of four, I think he enjoys my playful, no-stakes flirting.

I walk into the kitchen.

“Anthony?”

I set his mid-morning snack down on the small table wedged against the wall—my best effort to create a dining nook in our cozy, one-bedroom apartment.

Cooking isn’t really our jam. We’d rather just keep the takeout menus on speed dial.

We have a microwave for reheating leftovers and an electric kettle for coffee and tea.

It’s more than enough—we’re not trying to be Julia Child up here.

“Optimus Prime, have you seen my boyfriend?”

I convinced Anthony to unplug the stove and let me repurpose it for storage for my growing collection of vintage Transformers. He built a cute little display case right over the part on top where you’re supposed to cook.

“You’re probably in the bedroom.” Anthony loves his disco naps. “And my incessant chatter probably isn’t helping, is it?”

I leave the kitchen and do a little twirl on the area rug in the living room.

“There’s an open casting call for chorus members for the new Lin-Manuel Miranda musical.

Have you heard anything about it? You think any of the casting directors who have not-so-secret crushes on you could squeeze me in for an audition?

” Anthony is the first boyfriend I’ve had who’s a fellow thespian.

Typically, I try to avoid it since it can easily devolve into a competition.

But fortunately, Anthony doesn’t like musicals.

His skills are dramatic acting and TV work.

I pick up the mail he left on the coffee table and sift through it. Junk and bills. “I was so close to this latest gig. So close. I’ll get them next time.”

The exciting and exhausting part about being a Broadway performer is that it’s like playing the lottery. Most times you lose, but the next audition could be the jackpot.

“Okay, sleepyhead. I’m getting tired of talking to myself.” I push open the bedroom door. “Surprise!”

But the surprise is on me—the room lies in utter silence, devoid of life. Bobo trots past me and hops onto the bed as if nothing is wrong. I pop my head into the bathroom. Empty.

“Anthony?” My voice comes out softer than usual as concern bubbles up in my chest. “Did you go out?”

I run back to the hallway. I check the kitchen again. I check the bathroom. I even check the linen closet. I mean, Anthony is svelte so he could totally fit in there.

My heart picks up, thumping against my ribcage.

“Anthony?” I check under the sofa. Maybe he ran out to grab some coffee. Could he have been hungry? He tends to wake up pretty ravenous.

I pull out my phone to check for messages. Nothing.

New York may be a dangerous city, but would someone climb six flights of stairs to kidnap an actor? Is Anthony secretly working for the mob?

My finger hovers over the number nine on my phone. My throat goes dry. How much trouble is he in? I hear Bobo lurch himself off the bed and saunter into the hall, his leisurely gait showing no signs of worry. Dogs can smell danger, right? Or is it fear?

He grabs something from the coffee table, turns around, and stands before me with an envelope dangling from his mouth. Not exactly surprising—Bobo, like most gay men in the city, has a habit of shoving things into his mouth first and asking questions later.

“Bobo Baggins, what do you have?”

Yes, I know it’s Bilbo, not Bobo, but Anthony adorably dubbed him that after we slept through The Fellowship of the Ring , and it stuck.

He drops the envelope at my feet. My name is written in Anthony’s penmanship, which is as slender and neat as him.

Dear Bryce,

This isn’t a fun letter to write, but here goes.

At the wrap party last weekend, this casting director showed up.

I thought he was someone I’d had sex with, but I couldn’t remember, and it felt rude to ask.

So I stood there and nodded along as he said he’s casting this indie film— Boys Only Cry When They Dance —and thought I’d be perfect for it.

Julian St. Laurent is directing it— the Julian St. Laurent.

Maybe this film will go to Cannes. Is it pronounced Can or Cahn?

Anyway, the actor originally cast dropped out to take a role in the Mr. Potato Head movie.

And now they want me. The thing is, they’ve already started filming, so they need someone to start ASAP.

I’m going to the outback! Not the steakhouse.

Gosh, I wish. They have the best baked potatoes.

The actual outback—the one in Australia.

I might finally fulfill my lifelong dream of high-fiving a kangaroo.

I didn’t say anything sooner because I knew you’d try to stop me. Which is also why I left while you were out—better to avoid a tearful goodbye. We had a good run, but I think this relationship has run its course. It feels like we’re on different trajectories and mine is headed down undah.

You’re a trooper, Bryce. You’ll be fine. You always are. Bobo will take care of you. And you’ll get your big break anytime now. Definitely. Probably. Maybe. Give Bobo a kiss from me.

Later,

Anthony