34. Graham
34
GRAHAM
“ I wish I could figure out how to get an invite to the Met Gala.”
I’m stirring cream into my coffee, distracted by my own thoughts as Avery scrolls her phone and picks at a parfait across the island from me. She’s had a few weeks to recover and is physically “all better.” To look at her, you’d never know she’d gone through what she did. It’s her presence that carries all the weight. I can feel a disturbance in the air whenever she approaches, before I even hear her coming.
I wouldn’t say there’s a pall over the apartment. It’s too sunny and cheerful for that. But there’s a vibe shift. While there’s always noise—from the Alexa or the television, there’s a stillness, too. It’s peaceful. Like my parents’ living room once the Christmas decorations are cleared away. The slate wiped clean for a new year.
The theme seems to be “moving on.”
“Do you know anyone in fashion?” I ask.
“Not really,” she says, still scrolling. “I need new friends, though. And I know your mom goes to all those charity things, but if it could not be Catholic, that’d be amazing. ”
I manage to huff a laugh. “I don’t know if I can swing tickets to the Met Gala this year, but the Ballet Gala is coming up.”
Her eyes light up, meeting mine. “Have you been?”
“Sure. My mom loves ballet.”
“Oh my God, Graham, can we? There’s so many famous people who go to that. It’s just as good as the Met.”
“Minus the intense fashion pressure,” I say.
“Please, please, please ?”
She could ask me for my liver, and I’d carve it out myself to make her feel better. “Sure. It shouldn’t be a problem. Mother’s probably already bought a table.”
Avery squeals with excitement, gets up from her stool, and grabs her phone. “I need to go shopping. It’s soon .”
It’s next week. “Let me make sure there’s room at the table first.”
“I’ll call her. She’ll take me shopping. Oh my God. I cannot wait. This is—it’s perfect . You have no idea how much I need this,” she gushes.
I know exactly how much she needs it because I need it for her, too. I’m proud of myself for finding something she can look forward to. My father suggested taking her on a vacation. I’d had to work not to actively cringe at the thought. Lucky for me, it’s gala season. If wearing a tux and walking her through crowds of socialites and celebrities makes her feel better, we’ll do that.
Today is Sunday, and I’ll be in DC most of the week for a controversial judiciary hearing for a federal appointment in Florida. Margin-wise, he’ll be appointed, but the Democrats will want to have their way with him first. It’s one of those easier votes for me where it won’t really count. This guy would probably be Silas’s worst nightmare, but he’ll be in Florida, and he’s already got the votes.
I’ve noticed Silas doesn’t pay much attention to politics. I’m not sure whether it’s on purpose because I’m so involved, or if it’s not an interest of his. Either way, I can’t fault him for it. It’s boring on a good day and messy on a bad one. It all fascinates me, but I’m trying to keep a low profile while I feel things out. Between the whisper network, the press corps, and the other members of congress, it’s a lot to navigate. I’m a quick study, but I’ve yet to find it anything less than daunting.
I text Silas once Avery’s left the kitchen.
Me
Where are you?
Silas
My apartment. There’s some shit going down. I’ll text you in a little bit.
Me
Are you ok?
Silas
Fine. Ily.
The response is terse coming from him. Also— his apartment wasn’t the answer I was hoping for. I want to see him before I leave tonight.
I toss Avery’s yogurt, knowing she won’t be back for it. Emails are waiting for me, so I head into the home office to see what I can take care of while I wait for Silas’s shit to finish “going down.”
I don’t have to wait long. An hour maybe. Twenty-three emails.
Silas
Can you talk?
I call him, and he picks up right away. It sounds like he’s outside. Wind and traffic make up his background noise. “Everything okay?” I ask .
“Not really. I mentioned I was thinking of moving out, and everybody freaked.”
“I thought you said the timing was good.”
“Well, I knew once Eric left, Drew was gonna have a hell of a time making rent, and I thought it’d come up sooner—getting a new place, but it turns out I had to start the conversation, and it didn’t go over well.” He says this last part with a bitter bite then adds, “You don’t have a lot of fans in the East Village, Senator.”
My stomach drops. “You told them about me ?”
He sighs. “They’re my best friends. You don’t have anything to worry about. Can you not give me shit about this? I just got plenty from them.”
I hate this. “What did they say?”
“The you’re an anti-gay, anti-vax crusader and you hate brown people.”
“I’ve never once been anything but supportive of vaccinations,” I say.
“ That’s what you wanna say to me right now?”
No, I want to deny all of it. Even if he decides to google me, I’m confident he won’t find anything overtly homophobic or racist. Unfortunately, he won’t find anything that proves I’m otherwise either.
For the record, I’m gay, and I’m a big fan of diversity. I’m from New York. I know what colors the world is, and I’ve always liked it that way. But when it comes to border policy and national security, voters need to hear certain things, and I’ve said them. When it comes to puberty blockers and parental rights, I’ve leaned on the First Amendment. Less government. When it comes to choice—well, I’m Catholic, and that’s the answer I give. Typically, I don’t elaborate in interviews. It’s probably why I’m mostly ignored by the press. I don’t allow myself to slip and say stupid things that can be held against me from either side of the aisle .
“I don’t hate brown people either,” I mumble. “I don’t hate anyone. You know me, Silas. They don’t.”
“Christian acted like he knew a lot.”
“Fine,” I say, frustrated. “Take his word for it then. Forget the guy you’ve been fucking for five months. Who’s he anyway? Some impostor, I guess.”
“Graham…”
“I am, though, right? I mean—my entire life is a lie. Why would you believe a word I say?”
He takes a deep breath and blows it into the mouthpiece. “I’m sorry. You’re right. This just feels like a big deal.”
“What does?”
“Moving in.”
“I mean…I don’t live there…”
“Can I pay you rent or something?”
I balk. “Absolutely not.”
“ Why not?”
“Because I own the place. There is no rent. It’s empty when you’re not there, and I want you there.”
“And what if you decide you don’t?” he asks.
“Are you saying you’ve got no place else to go?”
“No,” he concedes.
“So no one’s doing anyone any favors here. You like the apartment, right?”
“I love it,” he says quietly while a horn blares on his end.
“Then take advantage. You can pay the utilities if you want.”
“I do,” he sighs, sounding relieved.
“Great. One less thing for me to worry about,” I say, hoping this concession is enough for him.
“Thank you,” he says so sincerely it’s almost unbearable not to be able to reach out and grab him. I want this man with my entire being. “So when can I see you?”
His question lights me up. “Are you on your way there now?”
“Yeah. ”
“I can be there in an hour.”
“The ballet gala?” Silas asks. “Next Thursday?”
I blink up at him. I’m lying on the couch with my head in his lap. “Yeah. Why?”
He grimaces. “Since it’s gala season, we might be running into each other.”
I frown, confused. “How’s that?”
“I’m a good date?”
I put my hand over my face, covering my eyes while the puzzle pieces slot together. “Fuck.”
His hand moves slowly back and forth over my abs in the same rhythm as before I brought up the gala. We’re still dressed because we’ve been talking since I got here. I feel like I know his roommate Drew now as well as I know my wife. He doesn’t want to talk about Christian, but he did ask how Avery was doing, and now we’re here—with me facing the prospect of running into my boyfriend with a man who’s paying to fuck him next Thursday night.
It’s all fun and games in theory, but seeing it? Someone else’s hands on him? In a tux? I might be sick.
“What if Avery sees you?” I ask.
“What if she does?”
“Won’t that…” I trail off, realizing he couldn’t care less who Avery sees him out with or what she assumes. I’m the one who might puke in front of Sarah Jessica Parker.
I curl onto my side, wrapping my arms around his waist and burying my face against his stomach. “Don’t women ever hire you?”
“Not often. I’ll get a closeted lesbian from time to time, but it’s rare. ”
“Do men who’ve been with you before ever see you at some other event with someone else?”
“I guess it’s possible,” he says, his hand now moving through my hair and sending chills down my arms. “No one’s ever said anything to me.”
“Why are you being so casual about this?”
“I think it’s fair to say we both wish the other had a different job. But here we are, and we’ll deal with it. Right?”
I answer by hugging him tighter.
“We can do this, baby,” he says.
“If I quit in six years, will you?”
He laughs. “I fucking hope I’m not still doing this in six years.”
At that I look up at him.
“Not you,” he says, pressing a fingertip between my eyes. “I plan to do you indefinitely.”
“It’s like that?”
He nods. “It’s like that. Not that I want anything to happen to my mom or Trix, I just… You know what I mean.”
I do. I completely know what he means. A lot can change in six years. He could open a gym. He could get a degree. God forbid, I could inherit, come out, and stop living a lie every single second of every damn day.
When he leans down and kisses me, that, at least, feels like the truth.