It’s been slow tonight. Well, not really slow, just...not quite so insane as usual. Most nights, there’s no time for breathing, never mind taking a piss or a second to chat with a coworker. Not even time to taste a little bit of the foie-gras-pancetta-black-current stuffed chicken breast that went out and came back because somebody decided they didn’t like it. But business does tend to die down in the thick of summer like this. It’s the end of July, you know? Prime time for outdoor eating. People go camping and picnicking and they have that annual love affair with their grill. It’s been like this every July that I can remember.

Six of them. That's six years working here. I guess you could say I know the ropes.

Anyway, it’s nothing to worry about. It’ll start picking up in August at some point, and then by September everything will be full-throttle again. For now, we all kind of enjoy the lull. Like, for instance, I enjoy how by eleven o’clock the place has cleared out, the tables have been cleaned and reset, I’ve settled up with the bussers and the kitchen, and now I’m sitting at the bar waiting for Sasha to finish his end-of-shift routine. He'll be getting things prepped for tomorrow, talking to Dobie, the head chef. Whatever. It changes from week to week, night to night, and I don’t always pay attention to what the chefs are doing. The floor, that’s my domain. My first job was in a hotel, mostly wedding banquets, and I’ve been doing pretty much the same thing ever since.

I take pride in my work, you know. I know some people probably look at me and wonder when I’m going to grow up and get a real job. Even Ma and Pop thought that for a while, just until they came to the restaurant a few years back for their anniversary. My treat, of course, and I served them, and after that I never again heard one of those little asides that I just so treasure. No more “Look, here’s an ad for Seattle College, hon” or “Edith Pucci’s son just graduated from medical school, did you know?” I’ve actually heard them brag about what I do, about all the important people I know who wave at me on the street like we’re pals. The Mayor of Seattle asks for me by name, when he’s in for dinner, so the way my folks figure it, I am a pretty cool and powerful dude even if I am just bringing the guy his supper.

Of course I have dreams of maybe doing something with a little more prestige. One of them involves owning my own little restaurant, but that’s for a long time from now.

Another one has to do with one Sasha Johanssen. I want him to move in with me, preferably to an apartment that we would choose together. But I know it’s not going to happen any time soon. I don’t even have to ask him.

See, I conducted the conversation in my own head, playing both parts myself.

I’ve been thinking...what would you say to moving in with me...or finding a new place that could be all ours...moving in together?

This is where Sasha does this thing that he does where he can look happy and sad at the same time. Holy Mother of God in Heaven, but I love his eyes. They’re this deep brown and I swear they glow sometimes. They have the most amazing warmth I’ve ever seen in another human being. Casey’s got nothing on those, if you ask me.

Oh, hon, he says. I would like to. Really I would, but...I just can’t.

Because of Casey, I say.

And he gives me his sharpest stare, as much as he can be sharp. The wondering if I do not like Casey or resent him or am jealous of him, in which case, Sasha will choose between the two of us and I know exactly how that turns out.

Of course, I love Casey. He’s an adorable little shit. Plus, he loves Sasha to pieces, which shows pretty good judgment on his part. Believe me, that makes a huge difference in my book, the way he’s so devoted and grateful and sweet to my boyfriend. I just wish that Sasha could let him be one of these days. Casey can handle it, I swear. He may be a bit fucked up but hey, aren’t we all? Okay, maybe a little more than a little bit, but the thing is that he seems to have figured out a way to live with it.

I know, I know... Sasha feels responsible for him because he was there when the legendary Roy was in the picture. No matter how far Casey comes — and he’s come pretty fucking far — Sasha can’t seem to stop worrying and fretting. Sasha has this almost sick need to be needed, you know?

So yeah, I don’t even need to have the apartment conversation because I know how it goes. Sasha says, I’m sorry and it’s too soon meaning too soon for Casey to be on his own.

I will just have to be patient. I can do that. Even if it feels like it’s been years and years, this whole drama with the three of them, I know it hasn’t been long. I think it still qualifies as what Ma would call “a rough patch.” Casey’s just a child, just turned twenty for fuck sake. And Zeke...even if he acts like he’s a hundred sometimes, I still think he’s just a little kid playing grown-up.

And speaking of… well, here comes my baby.

It still takes me by surprise sometimes, how tall he is. He's got something like half a foot on me, and I'm no shrimp. He's wearing his whites, pulling his cap from his head and smiling. He busses me a kiss somewhere near my jaw, which is just about all he's willing to do in public. “Hey.”

“Hey. You sound tired.”

“That’s because I am.” Sasha is sighing, rubbing his head. He does that a lot.

“It wasn’t that busy.”

“No...”

Of course, I know what’s bothering him. I wait, and I sip my Cointreau. So I like to treat myself to a shot of the fifty-year-old stuff after my shift...so sue me. I believe in enjoying the good things in life, and with what I’m making in tips these days, I can afford it. I don’t have any debts to speak of, and I drive a cheap car.

“Casey called.”

Twenty years from now when we’re all middle-aged and presumably too grown up for it, Sasha will be forcing Casey to call him at the appointed hour, to check in.

“Where’d he call from?”

“Home.”

I sit back and grin, performing my usual role of Mr. Don't Worry So Much. “See, he’s back already — “

“They’re back.”

“Huh?”

“That guy is in my home.” Sasha coughs, mumbles, “Paul Bunyon is in my apartment.”

I shrug, trying not to look like I have an opinion, because I know he takes this a lot more seriously than me. Last weekend we were all treated to our first sight of ...Paul Bunyon, as Zeke called him. We ran into him at the club, this absolutely enormous guy and it was pretty obvious that he and Casey knew each other. Maybe not well, but well enough. Long story short, Zeke and Sasha were not pleased. Casey has been very, very pleased, from what I hear, and it sounds like he’s not done being pleased either.

Now I have no problem with this whatsoever as long as no one gets hurt. Except — well, the problem is that Zeke keeps putting himself in positions where hurting is just inevitable.

As you might expect ever since Casey and Zeke started up again, there’s been a lot of fighting. Oh, pardon me. Not fighting. According to Zeke, it’s discussing. It just happens to look and sound like fighting.

No one’s exactly sure how this happened. All we know is Casey decided to go out partying with some guy. Not Bunyon, some other guy named Chris and that was how he met this other dude — whose real name happens to be Steve, I think.

And just to make it all that much more confusing, the next morning Sasha found Zeke in Casey’s room.

It took my baby a few hours to decide if he was happy or concerned about Zeke and Casey spending the night together. Of course, in the end he went with concerned, but he choked on it in the interest of maintaining the peace.

Later that day we went to the Bayview for a quick dinner. Everything was great until after we had finished eating. We were sitting there just chatting and this was where Zeke let it slip that he wanted to move back in with Casey and Sasha. Actually, I think how he put it was, “With my stuff and your stuff and Sasha’s stuff...the apartment’s going to be really full.”

Sasha’s head jerked up and he shot me this panicky sort of look, like I was supposed to do something.

Now, I don’t mind admitting that I kind of like the idea of Zeke moving back. It would make it more possible for Sasha to move in with me if he knew that Zeke was going to be around all the time. Of course that’s just a theory and as far as Sasha is concerned, Zeke is one of the things that he has to protect Casey from, and as much as I wish I could laugh that off, I can’t. Zeke adores Casey, yeah. It’s scary how much, and even if I’m sure most of the time he’d rather eat his own arm than hurt Casey...you never know. I really think that love isn’t supposed to be so intense that it has you screaming and crying all the time.

Like my parents, the way they love each other. They didn’t choose each other, their parents more or less did it for them. They knew that they liked each other well enough by the day they got married. I don’t think they fell in love that day either but I could always tell when I was a kid that they were true friends who respected each other, relied on each other. They didn't grope each other in front of us, but I think they are lovers too, in their way. There’s nothing wrong with that kind of love. It’s the kind that lasts.

It’s the kind that I’m after, with Sasha. Well, not exactly, but…I mean that I want it to be long term. That’s why I can be patient, as long as I can see a chance for that. I had my doubts at one time, but I came around.

Yeah, okay. You and I both know I’m not as cool-headed as I sound. Maybe I listened to just enough of those Mario Lanza records my mom used to play to soften me up inside but I don’t like to show it. Just humour me.

So back to the Bayview, where I was thinking that Casey, who is anything but cool-headed most of the time, would be all over the idea of Zeke moving back in. It’s dumb and reckless and big-hearted — yeah, Casey should have been all for it.

But his eyes got really big — no, seriously. Like, huge. I mean...well, you know what I mean. Like he had something to say and he was afraid to say it.

“Zeke,” Sasha said.

And Zeke looked disgusted like he does when he wants you to know you’ve said something really stupid. I tolerate his attitude because he’s an okay guy but sometimes I’d really like to smack him upside the head. “I don’t mean tomorrow,” he said, but then his eyes went to Casey.

“Z-Zeke...um...”

Well, shit, I thought. Here we go. And with me still digesting my dinner here.

“I don’t think so,” Casey blurted.

And Zeke was hurt — how could he not have been? But he is really damn good at not feeling it. I’ll bet in his mind there was nothing to be hurt about because he hadn’t finished twisting Casey around yet. He could persuade Casey that the sky is orange and clouds are big balls of shaving cream, if he really tried. And not just Casey. I’ll never ever admit it out loud, but I’m a bit intimidated by his brains. The way he argues, it’s fucking hard to stand up to him. Fuck if he isn’t a scary, scary guy.

“You don’t think what?” he said, as if they were talking about some principle of fucking physics or something.

I saw Casey closing his eyes, reciting prayers or whatever it is he does to screw up his courage. God, how many of these scenes have I been a witness to now? I always have this little debate with myself — should I try not to listen? Should I just let it wash over me? Because I can see how being a party to this kind of melodrama is just…addictive. I really do worry that someday I will get sucked in. Maybe I should go to the bathroom, or practice meditation. Except I’m not a meditation sort of guy. I could try mental bicep curls or quad stretches, or something...think about where Sasha and I would live, how we could look for a place together, maybe a three bedroom so we could have an office…

“Would you like to tell me why?” Zeke said, and I realized I had managed to completely miss Casey’s answer. From Zeke’s sneering, defensive tone, I could pretty much guess.

“I’m not ready yet.”

“Ready for what?”

“Zeke...” Casey was glancing over at me, and at Sasha. It was a conversation he didn’t want to have in front of us. I definitely agreed with that sentiment.

“What?” Zeke insisted.

“We talked...” Casey bit his lip. “Remember, we talked about how...we...” He trailed away.

“I remember talking. I don’t remember covering the living arrangements.”

I saw that Zeke understood very well what Casey wanted. He was just not going to be content until he forced Casey to say it, not because it was in Casey’s and his best interest to be honest but because it was painful and difficult.

This is his idea of punishment. I get that. Sasha gets that. Casey gets that. Only Zeke doesn’t seem to get that.

Quite naturally, Casey had gone all quiet. I didn’t blame him. I wouldn’t have answered if someone was talking to me like that either.

“Okay, fine. I’ll help you, since you can’t seem to spit it out. You basically want me around for booty calls but the rest of the time I’m to mind my own business.”

Casey lifted his chin. “That’s right,” he said. Zeke pounded his fist on the table, just once, and Casey jumped, withered. “Let me out,” he pleaded with Sasha. “Please.”

“Kitten.”

“Please.”

Shaking his head, Sasha slid down to the end of the booth. Casey was out and up and he was heading for the door, while Zeke was already pushing me to move. I got out of the way. The next thing I knew Zeke had tossed a fifty on the table to pay for the meal and was running after Casey. The door bell jingled loudly, a couple of times.

Sasha was making ready to follow. “No,” I said, and grabbed his arm.

It’s still amazing to me how many times I seem to be called upon to deliver this message.

“Hon — “

“Leave them alone.”

With a heavy sigh, he sat down again.

“They’ll figure it out on their own.”

“I guess.”

“Guess, nothing. It's not like they don't always sort these things out.”

I was right, too. When I picked him up for work later that day, he told me that when he got in, Zeke and Casey were curled up on the couch together like two contented cats. Nuff said.

My Sasha is nothing if not resourceful in gathering intelligence. Give him time — he’ll talk to the parties involved and piece together a reasonably accurate narrative of what’s going on, which is that Casey doesn’t want them to be in a boyfriend type relationship. He wants to hang around with Zeke and have sex with him, and he wants to be free to see other people, and Zeke, miraculously, has said he’s going to try to live with that although he doesn’t like it one bit. He seems to understand that this is all a part of Casey learning how to be his own man, so he’s dealing, even if it’s killing him.

Poor fuck. Now if it were me, I think I would just have to stay away for a while, but Zeke can’t seem to do that. Casey’s got him on a very short leash.

Sasha doesn’t much like this plan either. My baby is such a romantic. He thinks that the two of them are meant for each other, so every time Casey and Paul Bunyon hook up is like a tiny knife in his heart.

More to the point? He just can’t bear the thought of his little kitten fucking around. That’s the part of Casey he just doesn’t get, refuses to get. Now me, I agree that Casey looks really young for his age and that can get a little creepy when I think about it, but I’ve also seen that look in his eyes. He knows how he looks and how guys look at him. He knows, and he likes being looked at, too. He likes fucking and there’s nothing wrong with that. He’s a horny twenty-year-old and he’s being completely honest with Zeke so I can’t see what the big problem is, but hey, Zeke’s in love, and Zeke’s a complicated, demanding fellow.

Our trip to the club last weekend was a real barrel ‘o laughs, let me tell you. Like I was saying, Sasha and I managed to get Friday night off so we could go out to a club, the four of us. Episode the Next: Casey and the Rest Go out on the Town. This was a big deal, right? Although we were all working hard to make it seem anything but. Just a night out.

I used to go clubbing quite a lot, even after getting off work, staying up until five, six in the morning sometimes. I had my wild times, what can I say? It’s why I think Zeke and Sasha just need to chill out about Casey having his...but anyhow, I got all dressed up in club gear, took a cab to pick up the others. We had agreed in advance to cab it so we could all drink. This was going to be a par-tay, right?

It was, too… for a while. Casey batted his eyes at the bouncer, who conveniently forgot to ask for I.D., and Zeke consented to buy him a few drinks. We found a booth and took it easy for a bit, drinking our beers and hard ciders. And may I say, my boyfriend was just working the fucking shit outta his tight white t-shirt and black jeans, showing off his ass and his wide shoulders. He’s not a bulky type, more wiry, and perfect to me. And can he dance. Even though he's tall, he's never done that thing where he hunches and contorts his body. It's like he's determined to be wholly himself, in every way possible.

God, I love him.

Zeke looked like he always looks, which is more than enough, but Casey, I don’t remember what he wore exactly just that he was doing the thing with the make-up again and I must admit, he was hot. He looked like some slinky little nympho type, if boys can be that, and Zeke must have gotten really tired of feeling like a dog with his tongue hanging out of his mouth. Either that or glaring and barking at all the other dogs eyeing up Casey like he’s some juicy little tenderloin.

I’ve said it before. Poor Zeke.

Yeah. It was fun for a while. It wasn't long before Sasha and Casey decided that they had to dance, and for the next couple of hours they just tore up the floor, working up a good sweat. I was amazed to see that Casey could dance. I don’t know if it’s good or bad, it just...it’s just him, if that makes any sense. I always figured him as a non-dancer but when he got out there it was like something happened and his bones went all soft. The drinks he had probably didn’t hurt either.

I danced with them a part of the time but…not so much. I do like to dance but I also know that I’m pretty awful. When I go out there, I’ll be okay for a while and then suddenly I’ll feel self-conscious and have to sit down. As for Zeke, he refuses to dance at all. No surprise there. He can’t risk letting go like that, right?

Then, just when everything was trundling along, I saw that Zeke was utterly rigid, watching something, and I knew it had to be bad news. I followed the direction of his gaze and, sure enough, Casey was dancing with this giant man and it was pretty fucking clear what was going on. Casey was just about climbing him like he was a tree.

Of course, Zeke had had just enough booze to make trouble. I grabbed him when he made a move from our booth. “Where you goin’?” I shouted.

It occurred to me that this seems to be my job — grabbing people before they can do something stupid, except no one ever seems to listen. I don’t know why I keep doing it.

“’m gonna...!”

“Huh?!”

“...gonna fuck that guy up!”

I held onto Zeke’s arm. “Sit!”

For moments we were frozen in this pose, and then he just sagged down, to my complete astonishment. He drained the remainder of his drink, staring across the room at Casey and the stranger. Then he said something that I couldn’t hear.

“What?” I shouted.

He turned to me, and I was really surprised by the pain in his face. “I don’t want him to be hurt!”

I winced. “Zeke... it doesn’t look like he’s getting hurt!”

“He will...!”

I shook my head. “Let me buy you another drink. You’ll stay put?”

Zeke shot me a look. “Yeah!”

I wasn’t entirely confident that he meant it, so I made haste getting our next round. When I got back to the booth, Sasha was sitting there as well, and they were both watching Casey’s performance. He and the stranger were now plastered to each other, swaying and gyrating. When the song transitioned into a brief lull with just swirling, electronic ambience, they broke apart. They exchanged a few words, and then the giant leaned down; cupping his hands over Casey’s ear, he shouted something. Casey nodded.

Zeke gulped half of his drink, and nudged Sasha. “Move!”

Sasha stayed put. “What are you doing?”

“I’m going over there.”

The volume of the music was rising. The backbeat was about to kick in.

I shouted, “Does it look like Casey wants you to?!”

“Doesn’t fucking matter!”

There’s was certain logic to that, I suppose.

“What are you going to do?!” Sasha demanded.

It appeared that Zeke decided to forego explanations. He merely folded his arms and stared at Sasha until he got out of the way, probably because he liked the current situation no more than Zeke.

Zeke stalked over to the middle of the dance floor, to Casey and his new friend. It was difficult to see through the mess of guys, but I’m pretty sure that Zeke put a hand on Casey and tried to separate him from the other man. Words were exchanged, or shouts. I caught a glimpse of Zeke’s fists, clenched at his sides, and I waited to see them rise, expecting them to show their purpose.

It didn’t happen. There was some jostling, and some shouting, and then Zeke had Casey by the upper arm and was half-steering, half-pushing him back to our booth.

“We’re leaving!” Zeke announced.

There was a very tense, very silent cab ride back to Casey and Sasha’s apartment. Casey sat in the back, between me and Sasha. He had his jaw set and his arms folded. Zeke was in the front glaring out the window and acting like he was the only rational man left on the planet. I really wanted to tell Sasha to just come home with me, let Casey and Zeke go in and deal with it but Sasha was having none of that. He followed them in, and I had a feeling I needed to be there. I trailed after him.

Once inside the apartment, Casey kicked off his shoes and stomped silently into his bedroom — not the bathroom, thank god, or Sasha would have had a fit — with Zeke in tow and Sasha kind of drifting behind, while I stood in the entrance way, trying to decide if I should leave.

Very clearly, I heard Casey say, “I got his phone number.”

“Good for you.”

“I’m going to see him again.”

There was an odd silence. I couldn’t really see Zeke from where I was standing, but I could imagine him rubbing his head, trying to contain himself. Then he said, and he was pleading: “I don’t want you to. Casey — ”

“You don’t own me, remember? You don’t own me.”

Zeke’s voice rose. “I fucking well know that!”

“Then why won’t you leave me alone?”

“You don’t want me to leave you alone, Case.”

Now, I must admit, if he was speaking to me in that ultra-reasonable tone, it would piss me off too. So I wasn’t entirely shocked when Casey screamed, "Go away!” And he has a nice set of lungs, that kid. He can hit some good, high notes.

“No.”

“It’s my — this is my place!”

At last, Zeke’s calm was splintering. “I’m not — get your hands off me, Sasha!”

I took a step, envisioning Sasha being pushed but then I saw him merely standing in the hallway, staring into Casey’s room through the still open door.

Then the door slammed in Sasha's face. I saw him startle backwards.

“You had no right,” Casey shouted, only slightly muted by the door.

“Oh, really?” Zeke said, still loud enough to fill an opera house. “I have no right? Then maybe the next time you call me in hysterics, I’ll remind you that I have no right and I’ll just stay home.”

I took myself to the dining table. I sat. It occurred to me that I was really tired of being a party to these private battles. I was not supposed to be here. Sasha was not supposed to be here. We were supposed to not be here together.

Now Casey was sounding a bit more sane, less screechy. “That’s not going to happen again.”

“Apparently it didn’t happen last time either.”

“What?”

A small sound startled me; I looked up to see Sasha standing there. He reached out and I took his hand. He sat down, still holding mine. I squeezed his, and gave him a small grin.

“You forgetting what happened?” Zeke demanded.

“No — “

“It wasn’t even a week ago, Casey! You got passed around like a party favour, didn’t you?”

Sasha closed his eyes. I guess Casey hadn’t told him this. “Fuck,” he breathed.

“Why don’t you go ahead and say it!”

“What?”

“You want to call me a slut? Go ahead.”

“I don’t.”

“Yeah, you do. You like reminding me about shit, don’t you, Zeke? You’ve gotta punish me.”

It was distinctly possible that Casey had scored a point there, because Zeke was quiet for a few seconds, and when he picked it up, he was trying to be the essence of calm.

“That’s not the point. The point is, that guy messes with you and you have to go back for more.”

“He didn’t — “

“He was one of them, right? Tell me he wasn’t.”

This time, I couldn’t hear what Casey said. I definitely heard Zeke, though. He was nearly shouting again.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding! I saw — “

“...like him.”

“Bull fucking shit!”

“I like him, Zeke! I wanted to see him again — you said you wouldn’t interfere.“

A surprising thing happened then: Zeke didn’t reply. There was a huge gap right in the middle of the argument.

I whispered to Sasha, “He’s trying to calm down.” I tried another smile.

Sasha shrugged. He looked miserable.

“I know what I said,” Zeke said then. I held my breath. “I know what I said but I can’t just let you do this shit to yourself and not say anything. There’s nothing I can do about it, yeah, okay, Casey. But it’s not fucking okay! What do you want from me, huh? You want me to stand there while you get a meaningless fuck from Paul Bunyon, I guess I will but I’m not going to help you. I can’t help you with that, I’m just the idiot who gives a damn about you — what do you fucking want me to do — !”

Zeke’s voice broke. Sasha rubbed his forehead with his other hand.

I thought I heard a thud, like someone’s limb hitting the wall. A muffled sound like a flurry of movement, a loud creak of bedsprings and another thud. Either all talk had ceased, or the conversation had resumed in whispers. Frankly, I didn’t want to hear it. Another thud, and Sasha was on his feet.

I clenched his hand. “It’s time for us to go,” I said.

“No, Jerry — “

I refused to let him go. He whirled and glared down at my hand on him.

“What are you going to do?” I hissed. “They aren’t hurting each other.”

Sasha closed his eyes and shook his head. Then he looked at me, pleading.

“You can’t go in there,” I insisted. I know that at this very moment Zeke and Casey were doing something that he didn’t want to see, and frankly, I was surprised that even Sasha would go this far. I stared into his eyes and couldn’t believe what I was seeing. He was on the brink of something, but hell if I knew what.

“Something’s going to happen.”

“Something is happening but it’s none of our business, Sasha.” I pointed jerkily to the exit. “Let’s go.”

His eyes were shining, tearing up. God, I wanted to know what was going through his head. No, I needed to know.

I stood, moving in the direction of the entrance hall. Sasha stumbled a little, getting his shoes on. I didn’t speak, just gently prodded him by example, until we got outside. We began to walk down the sidewalk as though we had a destination when we would actually need to find a cab. It was a warm summer night, and not exactly deserted, and I had a moment of inspiration.

“Let’s get coffee.”

I steered him towards Zorba’s, bought him a coffee, got him settled. He still looked like someone had just murdered his puppy. Or more to the point, his kitten.

“Well?” I said.

He shook his head slightly.

“Sasha.”

“I shouldn’t have left.”

I tried to pitch my words so they would carry only to him, despite my anger. “How many times do we have to have this argument? Just when I think you’re ready to let go, you pull something like this...I mean, you were about to walk in on two people having sex! Enough is enough.”

“People think that certain things have to be private,” Sasha said, his face as sullen as it ever got. “And that’s just how some people get away with doing evil things to other people.”

“Do you think Zeke is doing something evil to Casey?”

“Maybe.”

I gave him a highly sarcastic head tilt. “Zeke?”

Sasha wrapped both hands around his coffee mug. “It’s possible. You know it is.”

“But for Christ’s sake, Sasha! Hasn’t he earned your trust — and — “ I broke off as I realized we were back where we were in December. “And you know what? That isn’t the issue. The issue is that you use this whole Casey-Zeke thing to avoid trying to have a life of your own.”

I couldn’t believe I said this, but now it was out. No taking it back. It wasn’t anything I hadn’t thought a number of times.

“That’s bullshit!” Sasha argued. “That's just — “

“It’s not bullshit. You know I’ve been wanting to ask you to move in with me? But I don’t dare because I know what you’ll say.”

“It’s too soon.”

“Exactly.”

Sasha didn’t reply, not immediately. He lifted his mug, taking a drink. I noticed that he was trying to control his hands, which were shaking.

“Sasha,” I pleaded. “Don’t you think you deserve to be happy too?”

He raised a hand. I thought I had better stop talking.

Then he said, “I’m going to tell you something...because I don’t want to have this fight with you again either.”

“Okay.”

“I know that I’m messed up when it comes to Casey, but I have reasons. I want to explain them to you. Can I explain?”

“Yes,” I whispered. “Yes, of course.”

“I don’t talk about this to anyone...not to Casey, not to Zeke... I didn’t think there was any point.”

I waited. Listened.

“I’m probably the only person who really knows how bad things got with Roy. There are things... I’m pretty sure Casey doesn’t even remember a lot of it, and I don’t see any reason to remind him. The last several months they were together — like, from January to May, Casey was zoning out a lot and when he wasn’t zoning...it was like he was in this cloud. He acted like everything was wonderful when Roy was preparing to get married and just dropping by now and then for a fuck. He believed all these things that weren’t true, and I was terrified. He thought that Roy was never going to leave him. Some days he thought the wedding wasn’t going to happen, other days he thought that the wedding was going to happen but Roy was going to set him up in a special little cottage somewhere on the Windle property. He could barely keep track of things — it’s a wonder he didn’t flunk out of college. I didn’t think he could be left alone. I hung around all the time at Roy’s, or I invited him to hang out with me at my place.”

“I know — ” I tried to interpose.

“There’s more.”

Shut up and drink your coffee, Jerry.

“Okay,” I said quickly.

“I got in the habit of sharing a bed with him, at Roy’s or wherever. This happened about six or seven times — Roy coming home and kicking me out so he could — you know?”

I nodded, daring nothing else.

“I left, Jerry. I would just go. I would see when Casey woke up and saw Roy there, I would see the belief, the trust. I heard Casey ask Roy where he had been and Roy would spin some bullshit. And then he would say, I’m never going to leave you, baby, and I knew it was a lie. He wouldn’t let Casey go, but he would leave him. I knew that.”

“He’s a prick,” I confirmed.

“But that’s not even the worst part! See, Roy’s fiancee, Janice, she was putting the pressure on Roy. He’d always had his apartment as a kind of refuge but she showed up there once and that was that. He asked if he and Casey could meet sometimes at my apartment, and I let them! I let them, Jerry, because I just couldn’t face Casey’s reaction if I said no. Then one night while they were there, Janice called me. She was looking for Roy, and I wanted it to be over…so I told her where I lived.”

“Oh,” I whispered.

“I wanted a confrontation. I wanted Roy to have to tell the truth to Casey, that he was going to be living in the closet and there was no room for Casey. So Janice came to my apartment and she made this horrible, horrible scene. She walked in on them when they were in bed. She called Casey a slut and so on, and she hit him in the face. She slapped him. Then she ordered Roy to get rid of Casey, and then she ran out.”

“How did Casey react?” I asked, trying to imagine some new level of hysteria I had never witnessed.

“He just...stared at Roy. He stared and stared, like he was waiting. He didn’t say a word. And then...you know what Roy did?”

“What?”

“He said, ‘You know I’m never going to let you go, baby,’ and he went after Janice.”

“Leaving you to deal with Casey.”

Sasha laughed bitterly. “What was there to do? Casey didn’t make a fuss, he didn’t have hysterics... He was in his little fantasy where Roy loved him and would never leave him. Not an hour later I mentioned Janice’s visit to him and it was like it never happened. And then the next day...” Sasha rubbed his forehead. “You think I feel guilty for not interfering? You have no idea. First I sicced Janice on him and the next day I decided to force the issue. I blackmailed Roy into telling Casey it was over.”

“You did the right thing,” I stated.

“But the right thing felt so wrong, Jerry, because it was way too late. I keep waiting for Casey to remember, to accuse me...”

“Maybe he does remember and it just doesn’t matter because you’re his friend? Have you thought of that?”

“I’m sure he doesn’t remember. Not the visit from Janice, not the rest of it. Days and days after that when he didn’t sleep and didn’t eat. I was the one who put him on the train to Herrington, Jerry. I’m sure he has no memory of the trip. He doesn’t seem to remember the things I’ve done to him!”

“It wasn’t you doing —“

“I basically stood by while Roy — !” He stopped suddenly, lowered the volume to an under-his-breath hiss. “I let Roy rape my friend.”

I felt like I had been punched in the gut. “No, Sasha,” I protested. “That’s not what happened. It was Casey who wanted it.”

“Roy got him so mixed up he didn’t know what he wanted! How it that not rape, huh?”

Again, I shook my head.

Sasha whispered, “How many times...?” He sniffed and dashed away a tear like its presence angered him for some reason. “I don’t even...I don’t even know.”

I had so many things to say, but I had to force myself not to speak until I was certain of myself. I was just grateful that he was willing to wait for it.

"Sasha," I said, and took a long breath. I was pacing myself. "I can’t speak to what happened before. All I know is — all I’ve seen is you being an amazing friend to Casey. Amazing… " Hell, I wish I knew more words. "Maybe you made some mistakes once…yeah, maybe you did, but there are some things — some things you only figure out are mistakes after the fact. It's not like you were trying to hurt him, it was just the situation."

"Isn't that just an excuse?" he said miserably, his eyes hanging on me like I was in possession of some kind of knowledge that actually made my opinion worthwhile.

"It's not an excuse! Roy's the one who…Sasha, has it occurred to you that Roy made a victim of you too?"

He was visibly jolted by this. He said flatly, "No."

"I think he hurt you a lot."

"Nothing like what he did to Casey."

"Of course," I sighed. "But my point is…"

What was my point?

"…my point is… is maybe you've been healing, too?"

He reached across the table suddenly, took my hand. "Do you really think that?"

"Yeah. I do. And I think…" I squeezed his hand, looking hard into his eyes because I was so afraid of how he was going to react to this next part. "Maybe when you're done your healing, you'll be ready to let Casey go."

Well, the good news was he didn't yell, or yank his hand away. He just blinked at me, his beautiful brown eyes conveying everything as he tried to decide if he should be offended. “What do you mean...let him go?”

“I don’t mean stop being friends with him, just...let him breathe. Let him live his own life and let yourself have a life.”

Sasha looked away from me, seeming to study what was going on outside Zorba’s window. “Sometimes...” he said softly. “Sometimes I feel like I want to let go. I really do...”

“Yeah...”

“... and then I think about him in that hospital last summer...and before that. You don’t know how...well, how vulnerable he was, Jerry. He was completely on his own. I mean, his parents let him down and...and I let him down. And Roy just destroyed him, Jerry, he destroyed him and no one stepped in. I was a coward, you know that? Roy was the first friend I made when I moved to Cincinnati and I — ”

I gripped Sasha’s hand, hard. “We could go around and around on this one, baby. Roy is bad news. He hurt you, he hurt Casey, and yeah, you made a mistake but it’s over now.”

“I’m just afraid of making the same mistake again.”

“You’re not going to. I promise, you’re not. I mean...shit, I’m not suggesting you move to another country. We’re just talking about a shift of attitude here.”

“And a new apartment.”

“That can wait.”

“But that’s what you want, isn’t it?”

“At some point, yeah, but that’s not what this is about. I just want you to believe you deserve to be happy, Sasha. And maybe say a big fuck off and die to Roy in your head, so we can all move on?”

Sasha uttered a small laugh, like maybe he was trying to develop a sense of humour on this topic.

“Or say it out loud,” I pressed.

“That’s funny.”

“Why’s it funny.”

“’Cuz...sometimes I would make Casey repeat things out loud and now I’m the one...”

“Pot, meet kettle.”

“Exactly,” Sasha said, and squeezed my hand.

“Well?”

“Well, what?”

“Aren’t you going to say it?”

“You mean...?”

“Fuck off and —“

“— and die. Roy.”

“Yeah.”

“Fuck off and die, Roy.”

“Amen, sister.”

With a bit of a smile, Sasha pulled my hand towards himself and kissed it. “I’m trying, Jerry,” he whispered. “I’ll...try.”

And he has been trying, really he has, but he can’t help getting a bit worked up about Casey and Steve being alone in his and Casey’s apartment. From the way he’s bracing himself as he opens the door, he must be thinking we’re going to find the walls smeared with lube and cum, and Casey splayed out on the kitchen table or something.

I will never say this to Sasha, because I know what’s good for me, but he can really be something of a prude. It’s not that he isn’t a sexy guy, far from it. Once you get him alone he’s pretty fucking flexible, but there’s always this moment where — well, I guess he has to convince himself that it’s okay, and then it’s okay. And he still has this sort of distaste about things, you know. I mean, bodies can be pretty gross. That’s just the way it is and it doesn’t bother me, but Sasha... I think his mother had code words for everything, like “unmentionables” for underwear and “fluffies” for farts. I’ll bet to this day he thinks that his mother doesn’t have to take a shit like other people. It’s just one of those things about him that I’ve gotten used to. Sometimes it’s even kind of cute.

Right now, it’s a bit frustrating. We could be back at my place, but he’s decided that he absolutely must go home tonight, and now he’s peering around like he’s expecting the worst.

I know this is a little bit unfair of me. I’m not the one whose best friend was put in the hospital last summer because he was more or less suicidal. I’m not the one who let one friend get away with raping another.

Am I too blunt? Maybe, but this is just what Sasha believes. He really believes that Roy raped Casey a whole bunch of times. That’s the long and short of it. I don’t know if that’s what happened. I don’t think Sasha knows, really. I don’t even think Casey knows, but what I’ve told Sasha is that he probably couldn’t have stopped it. He doesn’t believe me, of course. You’d think he was raised Catholic, the way he can hold onto guilt.

All is tidy and quiet in the apartment. The living room is dark, and the hallway. We can both see that Casey’s bedroom door is shut, and there is a strip of light showing at the bottom. Sasha switches on the kitchen and entrance way lights, and then hollers, right in my ear, “Honey, I’m home!” I have to turn and glare at him. “Sorry,” he whispers.

“Was that necessary?”

He rolls his eyes, which means: Yes, of course it’s necessary. He doesn’t want to hear anything relating to sex in relation to Casey.

There’s a bottle of red wine that I keep stashed in one of the cupboards. Once we have our shoes put away and ourselves generally organized, I am going for it. It’s a nice, fruity Beaujolais from Chile, one of my favourites in the fifteen dollar realm.

“Wine?” I offer.

In answer, Sasha retrieves two glasses from a high shelf.

While he is doing this, Casey’s door opens, and a gargantuan shadow emerges, moving down the hall towards us. It’s Paul Bunyon, and he’s tucking his shirt into his jeans. He grins, a bit sheepish. I can’t help but imagine him with Casey — god, he must just about crush him. But then, some big guys can be the gentlest people you’d ever meet. I think they have to be.

“Hi,” the dude says. He sounds like that Darth Vader guy when he talks, what’s his name — ? James Earl Jones. “I’m — er, Steve.”

Sasha grunts — I think it was his name.

“Jerry,” I say. “Hi.”

“Hi.”

“You want a glass of wine?”

Sasha goes all still, all at once, and I know I’m in for it.

“Ah...no, thanks. I think I should get going.”

Steve heads for the door. Just before he opens it, he pauses, turns and says, “I’m sorry about the kaffuffle the other night.”

Kaffuffle? Did he just say kaffuffle? I’m starting to feel like I might just come down with a case of the giggles. But Sasha is still not talking, so I chip in. “It’s okay. Zeke’s the one who started it.”

“Still...” Steve shrugs. “I’m just not that kind of guy, you know?”

Boy, do I ever. I’ve never been thrown out of a club in my life, and for a while there the other night, I was afraid that was going to be the outcome. “Yeah.”

“See you.”

“Bye.”

When he is out the door, and a suitable period has passed — say, ten seconds — Sasha turns on me. “What was that?”

“Just being polite.”

“That was more than polite! Maybe you want to invite him to dinner too?”

Every now and then, I can lose my temper. It’s usually brief, a build up of exasperated feelings and a small explosion, and then it passes. Like now. “For Christ’s sake, Sasha! Would you give it a rest?”

He is going to say more, but then we both realize that Casey has appeared, and we clamp down.

Casey has this way of not making a sound when he moves around. Not like me; it’s not like I shuffle or anything, but I just don’t know how to be that silent. Maybe it’s because he’s so little, or maybe it’s because he used to be so scared. All I know is, one second he’s nowhere and then the next, he’s in your space. It used to creep me out until I got used to it. I thought maybe he was always trying to sneak from place to place but it’s not that. It’s just who he is. Now it just catches me off guard sometimes.

It always catches me off guard, too, that this is the Casey who looms so large in my life. This slip of a person...I don’t know how it happened. Sure, I can see he’s special, you’d have to be blind not to. Or maybe strange is more to the point. I look at him, and I can totally believe that he tangled with aliens, if you know what I mean. The entire world is full of aliens to him. You can totally tell — which is my way of saying that he is perfectly nice, completely insane person. I think Zeke’s insane too; to be with him, he has no choice but to be President of Casey’s Crazy Club. It’s a harmless kind of crazy, mostly.

See, I think some people are just born so different, they have to be crazy to survive around here. There’s nothing wrong with it; I’m just glad I’m not one of them. I’m different, sure, but it doesn’t ooze out of my pores. There’s different like me, and then there’s totally, absolutely radically different like Casey, like he’s never, ever going to belong in this world. This world doesn’t know what to do with that kind of different.

Just this moment, Casey is barefoot, wearing jeans and a ragged t-shirt, leaning up against the wall. The Truth is Out There, says his shirt. There’s something unbearably right about that shirt, on him. His hair is standing straight up in places, and there is this hazy, vaguely happy expression on his face. He seems to be glowing. Like, literally glowing. If it is possible for a person to look well-fucked...that’s how he looks right now.

“Hey,” he says, and he smiles at Sasha. He stretches his arms over his head, showing his belly-button. He seems to be moving in slow motion. “You’re back early.”

“Slow night,” I agree.

“Um...I’m going to have a shower and go to sleep.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

He half-turns. Stops. Looks back at me, all of it still like the air is extra thick around him. “Hey, guys? Zeke and I were talking...about that present we gave you? You know, the dinner?”

Sasha blinks. Casey almost frowns, and I hate to see that look of sexual bliss threatened. “Yeah,” I say quickly.

“We think we’re ready.”

“Been studying cookbooks?”

Casey giggles. “Not exactly.”

I can’t begin to imagine what this dinner is going to entail, but I can see that Casey is still keen on the idea. I continue to fill in for Sasha, who is still making like a statue. “When do you want to do it?”

“How about Sunday?”

Inwardly, I wince. I usually go to my parents’ house for dinner on Sundays. I’m going to be giving up home-made ravioli or cacciatori and who knows what else for...who knows what. “Let me get back to you,” I say, and smile. “Just gotta check with my folks.”

Casey smiles back. “Great.”

“Do we get to pick the menu?”

“We thought we’d surprise you.”

“Oh. Sounds good.”

I give him the thumbs up. He beams, and slips silently away, down the hall to the bathroom.

All this while, Sasha has not said a word. I turn to stare at him, and this is where I realize that he’s been standing right next to me having a crisis this whole time. In his mind, he’s been living with this child who's been burned but still refuses not to play with matches — and then he comes home to discover this adult, coolly exercising his sexual rights.

“You want that glass of wine now?” I say.

He blinks at me. “Yeah...please.” He must be in distress to admit to wanting a drink. Because of his father, he’s very careful about his alcohol consumption.

I work hard at taking care of him. I get him comfortable in the living room with his glass of wine, sitting down next to him, rubbing the shoulder that I have access to. He takes a long slurp and some of it goes down wrong. He coughs and wheezes, with me patting him, then downs some more. Coughs some more. I take the wine away — a fine Beaujolais doesn’t deserve to be treated like that — and put it on the coffee table.

“What’s wrong, baby?” I ask, very gently.

I see him testing, listening for the sound of the shower running, and there it is, protecting our privacy.

“I don’t...” he whispers, and he is near tears, I can hear it.

I rub his back a little more. I don’t have to say anything; I’m good at waiting.

“Why does Casey having sex...bother me so much?”

“Maybe,” I suggest, playing my cards close to the vest. “Maybe because you feel kinda parental towards him?”

“No. No, that’s not it...well, maybe a little, but...”

“But?”

“Just know when I was looking at him I was wishing...”

“Yeah,” I breathe.

“I was wishing he would stop acting like that. I was disgusted by him...by him liking it so much.”

“Oh, baby.”

“I know. I’m disgusted with myself, too.”

“Don’t do that, baby.”

“But...Jerry...I’m afraid...”

“Afraid?”

“No, not afraid, I mean...is it possible that after all this time...I’m not okay with who I am?” His eyes are brimming with tears. “God, how could I be so full of shit? All those times I got after Zeke for his attitude...”

“Sasha. Baby, look at me.”

He twists slightly, facing me.

“It’s not like you have to love anal sex to be gay,” I say. “We have a pretty good time, don’t we?”

“Yeah,” he admits.

“Most gay guys I know don’t even do it. Personally, nothing makes me happier than a good blow job.”

“But I was judging Casey...”

“Yeah. Well, you know what I think? I think that Casey makes you feel like when you were younger and you were on your own, and scared...vulnerable, you know? Your dad kicked you out when you were just a kid. Maybe...maybe by protecting Casey you’re trying to protect yourself...just a bit?”

He blinks at me, then wipes his eyes.

“And it just so happens” I add, “that you are one of the most insanely protective people I’ve ever met. Between you and Zeke, it’s a wonder Casey knows how to tie his own shoelaces.”

Sasha bites his lip.

“You’ve just gotta let the kid grow up...and you gotta realize that you’re not that kid anymore either.”

He stares a little more, then leans into me and hugs me, hard. “You’re pretty smart.”

“Yeah, I know. Smarter than I look.”

He mumbles, “Maybe I could use some therapy, huh?”

I utter a mock groan. Sasha is chuckling, his body shaking gently against mine. “Let me take you to bed,” I whisper to him. “I’ll show you therapy.”

“Here?”

“Why not?”

“Casey...the other side of the wall...”

“He’s going to crash the second his head hits the pillow.”

“You think?”

“He won’t hear a thing.”

Well, if Casey does ever hear a thing between me and Sasha, he’s gracious enough to act like he hasn't.

If there’s anything this chapter of my life has been teaching me, it’s that happiness may very well be a matter of pure chance. I’ve seen these people in my life fighting and fighting to be happy and never quite getting there, and now, when they’ve kind of given up on it, it seems to happen to them out of the blue. Casey’s still doing his usual things — going to therapy and all that, and he and Zeke are not a couple, and they’re not living together, or even exclusive. But for some reason, they’re happy this week. It’s like Casey just got up one morning with a smile on his face and wanting Zeke around all the time even though he’s still getting close and personal with Paul Bunyon every other night. And I don’t know what he did to Zeke to bring him into line, but Zeke is being just as cuddly as he could be. If they’re not hanging out together then they’re talking on the phone or texting each other...they’re inseparable. I almost wonder if Casey keeps Zeke on hand in another room when he’s fucking Paul — er, Steve. Maybe in the same room. Who knows what kind of kinky stuff it takes to make their relationship work these days.

Now, here’s the point: Since Casey and Zeke are in a good mood, Sasha is in a good mood. And that means that I get to be happy too.

It can’t actually all be due to Paul Bunyon’s gigantic cock...can it?

Whatever it is, this has been a really good two weeks. We ended up postponing The Dinner a week because my ma absolutely had to have me and Sasha over last Sunday. It was my cousin’s tenth anniversary, see. Casey and Zeke didn’t seem at all concerned when I told them. If anything, Zeke looked relieved to have another night alone with Casey.

It won’t stay like this. It can’t. Just like it arrived, one morning the happy will have gone away. There’s nothing to be done about it, except keep doing the work. We’ll all keep doing the work. That’s what my ma and pop taught me. Work is the way to happiness. Not feeling too good? Keep making the ravioli or scrubbing the bathroom. Keep getting up and going in to the job. Work through it, and you will be rewarded. It even works, sometimes. Obviously, my folks were brought up in that mindset where you didn’t go to therapists, and you sure didn’t lie down and want to be dead because you were depressed. What can I say? They’re old school, but of course if I ever came down with a case of depression, they would have to adjust their ideas, I guess.

This business of Casey and Zeke cooking for us is a big deal. I’ve run into Stokely, and she mentioned it. I saw Stan for ten seconds the other day as he and Zeke were on their way to play squash, and he made a crack about it. I’m beginning to feel just a little bit worried. I mean — fuck, whatever it is, I’m going to do my best to choke it down, but what if I can’t?

Sasha and I have agreed to dress up a little. Not too much, we don’t want to be too formal. I wear a nice silk shirt and slacks. I like clothes. I don’t overdo it but I like the feel of quality, you know? I’d rather have one really expensive, top-notch shirt than a dozen cheap ones. I take care with my shaving, my hair. I usually wear it very short, but I’ve been thinking of letting it grow in a little. Just a little, mind you. The guy in the mirror looks pretty good, even if I do say so myself.

I have a bad feeling as I knock on Casey and Sasha’s door. Sasha opens the door to me; he looks and smells great, though, and I take the opportunity to paw him up a little.

But he has other things on his mind. He goes along with it for a few seconds, then is turning back to look into the kitchen. "Are you sure you want to do this, kitten?" he asks, and I just want to groan aloud. Zeke is in plain view behind the tableau of Casey and Sasha, and he's pouring a drink for himself from what looks to be a brand new mickey of vodka.

"Yeah, I want to do it. Don't you…um, don't you want me to?"

"Yes! Yes, of course. I just mean you don't have to."

"It was your present," Casey says. He sounds near to tears. He is hugging one of Sasha's cookbooks against his chest, and looks more frayed than I have seen him for some time.

"But you picked some complicated dishes, kitten — "

"Sasha!" I say.

He looks at me with a frown.

"I have an idea. Why don't we go to a movie…so we're not in their hair?"

Sasha doesn't look terribly amenable, but Casey is somehow simultaneously grateful and more upset.

"So tell me…what are you cooking for us?" I inquire.

"Penne with vodka sauce."

I nod. "Mmm."

"And chicken…" Casey opens the cookbook and reads. "Grilled chicken with herbs…and spinach salad with candied pecans, goat cheese and pears. And for dessert, l-lava cakes with this cream sauce…can't remember…"

"Crème anglaise," Sasha supplies, with a meaningful glance at me.

The one and only time I tried crème anglaise, I burned it, and I am not entirely without skill.

"I'm in charge of the salad and the chicken," Zeke informs me solemnly, and downs his shot of vodka.

I would like to laugh hysterically, but I don't. I clap my hands together like some idiot in a movie. "Coolio. Well, Casey…can I use your computer to check the movie listings?"

"Sure," he says, with barely a glance at me. He is busy reading.

"Sasha, come with me."

"Huh?"

"To pick a movie?"

Undoubtedly, Sasha couldn't care less, but he comes along quietly. I open Internet Explorer and search for local movie listings while Sasha hovers over my shoulder — and we both jump at a large clatter from the kitchen.

"Fuck," Sasha hisses.

"Shh. Whatever it is, it's not breakable…hey, Spiderman!"

"Say what?"

"The movie. I've been wanting to see this. Can we, babe?"

"Oh…why not."

"There's one starting at 2:30. It's perfect."

I have to grab him by the hand and almost haul him to the door. Our last sight of Casey and Zeke before we leave is the two of them in a kitchen surrounded by groceries, implements and cookbooks.

As we settle in my car, I say, “I knew it was too good to be true.”

“Huh?”

“The happy.”

“Ha-happy?”

“Yeah. Everyone’s been in such a good mood.”

“They have? We have?”

Apparently, Sasha hasn’t noticed. He states, “Zeke got Casey to agree to only have sex with him and Steve.”

“At the same time?”

“What — ? No! And he apparently wants Casey to tell him when and where it happens, and how many times.”

“Jesus,” I breathe.

“Yeah.”

“Why doesn’t Zeke just have Casey write him a daily report?”

Sasha runs a hand through his hair. “I wouldn’t put it past him. And you know, Casey’s kind of the same. They both think like science geeks, you know? It feels almost like Casey’s running an experiment. He told me last night he’s been learning a lot...by comparing the two of them.”

“Do I want to hear this?”

“No, and neither did I. He just said...he knows it’s different with Zeke.”

“I really don’t want to hear this.”

“He says, he knows that Zeke loves him.”

“Well...that’s something, right?”

I am sticking to my theory. It’s the biggest cock in the world that made the difference. See, what I think is going to happen is Casey gets all the sexual satisfaction he can stand, and he realizes that it’s still better with Zeke. I may have been brought up in a macho culture, but even I know that it’s better when you have feelings for a person. Everyone knows that.

Or maybe not. Maybe it’s just a myth. Maybe Casey doesn’t know it, but he’s going to use his big brain to figure it out. All I know is, Zeke and Casey will never be able to call it quits. They don’t know how to be any other way.

I have collected the Spiderman comics for years, so I don’t have high expectations of this film, but it is pretty good. I chatter about it all the way home, with Sasha nodding and grunting and more or less humouring me. He’s such a wonderful, generous person.

The instant we step into the apartment, however, my good mood vanishes. There is a horrible burning smell and I know Sasha is going to be mourning a pan or two tonight. Zeke is standing grimly over the stove, stirring what appears to be a giant pot of boiling pasta. Neither the roasted chicken nor Casey is anywhere to be seen. I do detect evidence of store-bought tomato sauce. On the counter, the wooden cutting board is strewn with carbonized pieces of bread.

On the stove, it appears that a saucepan has been sacrificed to the attempt at crème anglaise, which is now a blackened skin.

“What happened?” Sasha asks. To his credit, he doesn’t sound angry at all.

Zeke pulls out the wooden spoon he is using to stir the pasta. “Casey’s in his room.” I can tell that he is more than half in the bag.

“Doing what?”

“Sleeping, probably.”

“Crap,” Sasha mutters. “He took a Xanax? How long ago?”

“About an hour.”

This will be the first time in almost two months, and now, at the prospect of making a meal for me and Sasha? I feel just a little bit ashamed. I know I’m a food snob but I never thought it would do anyone any harm. Now Zeke is drunk and Casey is sedated and hiding in his room.

Zeke reports, deadpan: “Casey burned that crème anglaise stuff, I burned the cakes and the chicken…and that vodka sauce tastes like shit.”

I see Sasha’s mouth twitch. I’ve never heard him really yell before, and I brace myself.

“And Casey dropped one of your wine glasses,” Zeke finishes. “That was when he kinda freaked.” He stirs the pasta, hopelessly. I can tell just by looking at it that it’s dreadfully overcooked.

Sasha makes a horrible, stifled, snorting sound, and it occurs to me that he’s trying not to laugh. “And the pasta?”

“First batch is in the garbage. I ran down to Wellth and got some stuff...had to have something, right?” Zeke frowns at the pasta. “I think it’s almost done.”

This is when I lose it. I burst out with guffaws, and Sasha starts to giggle.

“This is fucking serious,” Zeke protests.

“Un...huh...!”

“Sasha...we ruined another of your pans.”

“Oh, Zeke, hon,” Sasha says. “It’s not serious...it’s funny. C’mon, what else can it be?”

Zeke begins to smirk slightly. “Yeah,” he admits. "Okay." He turns off the heat on the stove. “Whatta you say we order pizza? My treat.”

“Oh, god, yes,” I agree fervently, because snob or not, ashamed or not, I simply cannot bend when it comes to sauce from a jar. The horror is too great.

“I’m going to talk to Casey,” Sasha says.

“I’ll come with,” I put in, because I really do feel partly responsible for this. Sasha gives me a quick look but says nothing.

He knocks once on the door before entering, a bold thing to do if you ask me. When you grow up with a bunch of siblings in a small house, some things are sacrosanct and a closed door is one of them. But Sasha is just like this when it comes to Casey. He pushes the limits.

It seems that Casey is asleep, curled up in the bed with his afghan, his back to us...but again, Sasha plunges right in. “Kitten?”

And Casey rolls over. Not asleep after all, he looks like he’s been asleep, or nearly. His eyes are puffy and red, too, never a good sign.

“Oh, kitten.” In a heartbeat Sasha is on the bed and has his arm around Casey, who curls in against him like he is that kitten that Sasha is always naming him. His eyes catch mine, and he almost literally hides his face from me, burying it.

“It’s just food,” Sasha croons, stroking Casey’s hair. “Not worth getting upset over.”

“I know,” Casey mutters.

“Then why...?”

“I just wanted so much...to...” Casey’s voice almost disappears, drowning in breathy, almost-sleep. It happens now whenever he takes a Xanax because of that other drug he’s on. The last few times he got terribly weepy and it seems this time will be no different. “...do this right...so of course...had to happen...”

“Is it possible that you were putting just a little too much pressure on yourself?” Sasha muses.

“But...was supposed to be...gift...Never know what I can give you.” Casey’s hand opens once and convulses, clutching at the afghan. “Wanted this to go right...so bad...and...and I could feel it coming...the attack...all morning...couldn’t stop it. So sorry...”

“Hey...you know, this is just silly.”

“I know. Silly, stupid...melodramatic...stupid.”

“Now cut that out.” Sasha is rocking Casey, just enough that a depressed twenty-year-old will accept it. “I don’t want to hear you saying that about yourself, okay?”

“Shouldn’t...have to take the pill...”

“That’s what they’re for, kitten.”

“...can’t stay awake...”

“That’s okay. You go to sleep, and we’ll all be here when you wake up.”

“Zeke?”

“Zeke, too.”

Casey abruptly peers under Sasha’s arm at me. “Sorry, Jerry,” he whispers, and I swear, even though I already care for him as a friend, I just kind of fall in love, he is that fucking adorable at this moment.

“Nothing to be sorry for,” I reply, sitting down on the bed. I pat his ankle, feeling slightly awkward about it. “Nothing at all.”

“Just...s-saying that.”

“Naw, I mean it.” And I really do. “Look, some of us where just not born to cook. Like me.”

He blinks, struggling to be awake. “You cook.”

“I know enough to impress a date, that’s all. I don’t have the aptitude. I burned my first crème anglaise too...but, hey, that’s okay! I make up for it by being really good at eating.”

Casey manages a smile, but his eyelids have drooped so far, I doubt he can even see me. “Gotta sleep,” he mumbles.

He’s out within seconds.

In the hallway, Sasha grabs me and lays on a long, fiery kiss.

“What?” I demand. “Not that I’m complaining.”

“That was just because you’re such a hero.”

“I wasn’t trying to be.”

“I know. Exactly.”

Zeke has ordered three pizzas — one with the toppings that I like, one just the way Sasha likes, and one with just pepperoni, for Casey and himself, but probably more for Casey. Zeke himself would probably eat anything that didn’t eat him first.

We end up spending most of the evening just watching TV — The Real World — and engaging in snooty, ironic commentary. We drink the rest of the rum, the brandy, the wine and the beer, and by the time we are drunk, Casey is awake and seeking some pizza. “No mushrooms, right?” he asks and Zeke hands him a slice of pepperoni without a word. He chomps it down, and then another, washing them down with soda and not saying much. He is still pretty stoned, and, since Zeke is fairly drunk, they make a cute if sloppy couple, nearly asleep and propping each other upright.

After one a.m., Sasha goes over and shakes Casey. “Kitten.”

“Mmph.”

Zeke’s eyes fly open, because as usual he is on high alert, watching for anyone who would do his baby harm. “What?” he snaps.

“I think it’s time for bed.”

Zeke, I can see, is struggling to be awake. “Gotta clean up,” he says thickly.

“Never mind...you can do it tomorrow.”

“Yeah?”

“Sure. It’ll keep.”

Zeke blinks, then nudges Casey. “Case...Casey...”

“’m sleeping.”

“You wanna sleep in a bed.”

A pause, then: “Bed?”

“Yeah. Your bed.”

“You comin’?”

Zeke seems to suck a breath. “If you want.”

“Want.”

It’s not like they haven’t slept together more than a few times over the past weeks, but maybe this is the first such invitation.

“Zeke?” Casey slurs.

“Yeah.”

“’m sorry.”

“I know.”

“Yelled at you.”

“It’s okay.”

“Threw a piece of chicken at you.”

“I wasn’t hurt.”

Casey, I see, is peering up at Zeke, and I for some reason, am holding my breath now.

“Yeah, you were.”

“Okay,” Zeke admits. “I was a little hurt.”

“Don' want to hurt you ever.”

“I know.”

“You’re...kinda...you’re...” Casey sucks in air slowly, licking his lips. “You’re Zeke.”

“You got that right,” Zeke returns, very serious about it. And as though he has no inkling that Sasha and I are here, he leans in, mashing his mouth against Casey’s forehead rather ungracefully, getting a part-mouthful of hair. He moves, licking his lips, and says, “You got that.”

“Always got that.”

Zeke clears his throat. “Um...let’s go to bed.”

“Kay.”

It’s quite a procedure, getting the two of them on their feet and moving, but at last they are, Zeke making furious gestures to keep Sasha at bay. Sasha can just watch them go.

When they are out of sight, Sasha turns to me.

“So,” I say. “We’re cleaning up, right?”

“Do you mind? I can’t leave it like this and sleep.”

“Nah.” I am at that stage of drunk where I feel energized rather than dopey, ready for the clubs. After all, I am usually up for hours past this. It is a strange life in the restaurant biz, don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.

I collect as much of the mess as I can, move it toward the kitchen where Sasha is standing, surveying the damage. Every surface is covered with dirty dishes, food and garbage, not to mention the empty bottles and pizza boxes, the roasting pans full of failed chicken and blackened nuts. And the crème anglaise pan. Sasha picks it up and regards it solemnly.

“This was a Mauviel,” he says sadly, and raises heavy eyes.

“Time to break out the S.O.S. pads.”

“No good. It’ll take off the finish.”

“I have an idea. Why don’t you just throw it out?”

“Jerry! This is a —“

“Mauviel, I know. But it’s never going to be the same again, you know it. Hell, I’ll buy you a new one.”

“I can’t just toss it.” He seems to be giving me a look that says he’s not just talking about the pan.

“All right,” I sigh. “All right.”

A few minutes later, Sasha nabs me on the side of my face with a kiss. “Hero,” he croons.

Casually dropping an empty pasta package into the giant garbage bag, I ask, “You mean that?”

“What? Of course.”

“Seriously.”

Sasha gives me a hard nudge. “Yeah, seriously. Geez.”

“Like I saved the world from aliens, hero?”

Sasha grabs my arm and turns me to face him. The water is running and we’re still in the midst of dealing with a mess but I have the distinct impression that time has come to a stop just now. Sasha’s eyes are doing that glowing thing that I love, long for.

“Do you want to be a save-the-world kind of hero?”

“Actually...no.”

Smiling, Sasha kisses me again, his lips a soft, familiar pressure, gently parting my own. Then he says, “Me neither.”

Well, this is the slowest night yet. There are even empty tables, Sandra has already been sent home, and I'm next. I won't be able to go home, though, because I'm with Sasha and if I know those chefs, they'll be back there playing around with new sauces and spice rubs. It's just what they do, when they have the time. They are artists and food is their medium.

The reason it's so dead? It's August, it's Saturday, and by some miracle, the sun is out. We do get sunshine in Seattle, and it's just that much more precious to us. I don't blame anyone for choosing a picnic or barbecue over dinner in a fancy restaurant.

I am behind the bar, filling a lull by wiping and polishing wine glasses, trying to get them as sparkling as possible, when Casey blows through our door.

Now, I have been trained to expect mayhem. Whenever I catch a glimpse of his multi-toned head, I am immediately on guard. Not hostile, just prepared — yes, even now, and especially when he makes an entrance like this. There is high emotion involved. No question about it.

See, today was his driving test. To get his driver's license, and as much as he's been kind of acting like he doesn't care that much…how could he not? I remember when I got my license, driving my car — well, my pop's car — home after, and feeling like the world was more or less at my feet. That feeling of freedom, like you could go anywhere, it fades in time but it comes back now and then too. Plus, I think of driving as just one of those things that everyone knows how to do, like tying your shoelaces and washing yourself. At least in this part of the world. I remember being shocked that no one had taught Casey to drive until recently. I knew how to drive when I was thirteen.

Shit, I think. He's failed.

"I passed!"

And now I take in the details — flushed face, sparkling eyes, and an actual, honest-to-Jesus smile. Zeke is a few feet behind him and I can see that he is wearing a tolerant smirk.

"It was easy," Casey says. "We just went for a drive and I did what he told me…I parallel-parked and the — the guy — "

"Examiner," Zeke supplies.

"Examiner-guy, he said if I can parallel park Zeke's car, I can parallel park anything — hey, where's Sasha?"

"In the kitchen," I reply, as though it weren't a given.

Casey sets out for the swinging doors between the dining room and the kitchen without any notion, apparently, that it might be inappropriate. Anyway, he's been back there before, Andrew knows him. I exchange a look with Zeke as he perches himself on a bar stool. Zeke is still looking oddly subdued, but not unhappy.

"I have that proud feeling again," I venture.

Zeke nods. "Me, too."

"What's up?"

"Huh?"

"You're kinda quiet."

"Oh…I guess I'm not used to things going off without a hitch. I don't know what to make of it."

I grin. "Enjoy it while you can."

The look he gives me is a sharp one.

"Do you want a drink?" I ask.

Zeke shrugs. "Since I have a designated driver…"

"What'll you have?"

"Oh…vodka and soda."

I nod, and serve it up.

Zeke is just taking his first sip when I hear a laugh and witness Sasha and Casey coming in our direction. They are catching a lot of attention from the customers, too. In a restaurant like this, a chef is somewhere between high priest and superstar, and right now he's behind Casey, his arms around Casey's shoulders nudging him ahead like he's the signature dish on the menu tonight, and Casey looks like the attention doesn't bother him one bit.

Of course this all makes me happy. It does, truly, but I think that the reason for that is, I know it won't always be like this. This is just a fact. It doesn't make me a cynic or a bad person. I'm not bitter about it. I'm just saying I accept it.

Sasha winds up on the bar stool adjacent to Zeke, with Casey standing between his knees. Sasha is petting, stroking Casey's arm like he doesn't quite realize he's doing it. I have a pang of something, not-quite jealousy. I can't help it, even if I know it has nothing sexual to it. Sasha is affectionate and loving to me but we could never have this easy, high contact intimacy that he has with Casey. They're like two pups in a basket, using each other's bodies for comfort and play. It gets to being a little uncomfortable for the rest of us. It also hurts me, just a little.

"Are you done?" I ask Sasha. "Working, I mean."

"Yeah. Andrew says you can go too."

"What, is he going to run the entire restaurant himself?"

"Something like that." Sasha gives Casey a wholly gratuitous squeeze. "I'm so proud of you, kitten!"

Casey sways a little, letting himself be rocked back and forth. "Yeah, if I wanted to I could just go somewhere. I could leave tomorrow."

There is a sudden, anxious hole in our chatter. Zeke's eyes get as sharp as razors. "Sure," he drawls. "If you had something to drive."

Casey blinks at him, then says with a pout, "I was just talking…not planning on going anywhere." He shifts forward, into Zeke, and presses his lips to his.

"Good," Zeke mutters.

"So I really can't drive your car?"

"Was just kidding… hmm."

"You will have to get some insurance," I put in, and then immediately feel like the lamest, most mood-breaking-est slob who ever lived.

"I'll take care of it," Zeke says quietly, not breaking eye or lip contact.

Sasha clears his throat. "So…who wants to go for a celebratory coffee?"

I see that Casey and Zeke are mired in one of those soulful gazes that make me want to grab the two of them by the scruff of the neck and yell at them to get a room, or at least remember that they're in public. It's damned annoying sometimes, and I don't foresee coffee in our future.

"I dunno," Casey whispers. "I'm kinda tired."

"Me, too," Zeke agrees.

Sasha rolls his eyes. "Okay." He pulls his chef's cap off his head and rubs his scalp. "Okay. I really could use a shower anyway. All I can smell is garlic and lamb."

"Why don't you come home with me tonight, baby?" I suggest, because let's face it, Casey and Zeke could really use their alone time. I know I don't want to be around the apartment trying not to hear whatever is going to unfold.

Sasha nods at me and smiles, but there is a moment, a little while later when we're standing in the parking lot and Casey and Zeke are about to head to the Mustang, when I see him wearing that look — the one that says he wants to go with them and get in their way or at least monitor their way.

I grab his hand. He starts a bit, gives me another, even more wistful smile.

"Okay, let's go."

We take a step, and I get an idea. "Hey."

"What?"

I have spoken loudly; Casey and Zeke are looking at me, along with my boyfriend.

"Why don't we all go for a drive tomorrow? There's this park about twenty miles down the coast...Saltwater Park. You can walk along the shore, look at Puget Sound great scenery."

"Can I do the driving?" Casey asks.

"That was the idea," I return, but I see Zeke biting his lip. He doesn't say anything, however.

"Shotgun!" Sasha calls, and I groan. It's going to be a tight fit in the back seat of Zeke's car, but my Honda Accord is even smaller and tighter.

Casey turns to Zeke, who nods and shrugs.

I am feeling quite pleased with myself, settling behind the wheel. Sasha thumps in beside me with a groan and a waft of lamb.

"Great idea, hon," he says.

"I know."

"It'll be good for Zeke, too. He needs to practice giving up control — "

"Yeah, and you know what?"

"What?"

"I think it will be really good for you if tonight we don't talk about Casey and Zeke, we try not to think about Casey and Zeke even."

He is quiet for a considerable pause — several blocks, at least. Then he says. "I'm sorry."

"You don't have to apologize, baby."

"Yeah, I do. You're such a great guy — "

"Look, Sasha." I manage to take my eyes off the road long enough to let him see that I am not angry. "I'm just fine. This is about you. I want you to be okay."

"I'm okay," he protests.

"You sure?"

"Translation: 'No, you're not, baby.'" Sasha leans his head against his window. "All right. I admit…I don't quite know what to do with myself."

"Well, how does this sound? I'm going to take care of you tonight. We're going to get you all clean and sweet-smelling, and I'll feed you some wine and give you one of my special massages…"

"Oh, God, that sounds good," Sasha sighs.

"And that's not all." I wait until we have come to a full stop at a red light, then turn to him, reaching for his hand. "I want to try something…something we haven't tried before."

His eyes widen a little. "What's that."

I lean over and whisper it in his ear. "I want you to fuck me."

He has expressive eyebrows, my boy. He uses them now.

The light is green; I return my attention to driving.

"Jerry," he says. "I thought you didn't care if we had anal or not."

"I don't care if we never do it, but that doesn't mean I don't want to try it."

"You haven't…?"

"Not with you."

"Jerry…I don't know if I'm comfortable…"

"Oh, come on, baby. You and I both know you're the toppiest top who ever topped."

Sasha laughs, just as I am hoping he will.

This is all a part of my plan, you see. It's about him getting the healing he's been needing, and here's the thing… There's no one else who can do this for him. Not Zeke, definitely not Casey, and not even Sasha himself. It has to be me, and yeah I'm gonna fix him.

Maybe it's silly to say that. People aren’t supposed to fix other people because people are supposed to fix themselves. Thus Spake Dr. Phil, right? But yeah, I’m going to fix my baby. He's got it in his head that fucking equals someone dominating someone else. That's what that fucker Roy did to him, making a beautiful thing into something ugly, but I’m going to remind Sasha just how good it can be. All I have to do is survive it, and that’s pretty fucking easy.

And, well… we go back to my place, and I do exactly that.

Nuff said.

What? Did you think this was porn or something?

Sasha is standing next to me on the sidewalk in front of my apartment building, and he is grumbling. "Why so early?"

"It's eight o'clock. You get up at eight all the time."

"Yeah, but someone kept me up most of the night. And I don't see why we couldn't have a leisurely breakfast…"

"You know why."

"Tell me again?"

The fact of the matter is, Zeke wants it this way. He doesn't have a reason, at least not one that I find compelling. It's just what he wants; he called last night at midnight with a number of rationales, to which we had no choice but to succumb.

"He's a road trip Nazi, is what he is," mumbles Sasha. He slides a look my way. "How you feeling there, babe?"

I am perfectly laid back. "Fine."

"Really? Not sore at all?"

"Well, aren't you puffed up with manly pride this morning."

"Jerry! You know I'm not about that — "

"I know," I reply quickly, touching his arm. "I was kidding. And I promise I'm just fine. I'm great."

He leans in and gives me an unprecedented, public smooch on the lips.

Things could go on in this same vein for a while, maybe, but at this moment Zeke's car comes roaring around the corner and stops rather abruptly at the curb in front of us. I am surprised to see that Casey is driving – he is usually much more cautious, sometimes excessively so — but not so surprised to see that he and Zeke both look pissed off. They sit there, both of them glaring out the windshield while the motor burbles in its low baritone. Then Casey is moving. He's out of the car, coming around the back to the sidewalk, where he is confronted by Zeke.

"Get back in the fucking car."

"I will…in the back."

"In the driver's seat."

"No."

"What's going on?" Sasha asks in his most patient voice. He has a range of voices, each for a very specific situation.

"Zeke doesn't want me to drive."

"I didn't say that."

"He thinks I'm going to wreck his car."

Zeke all but shouts, "For fuck sake — ! I was a bit anxious but I'm fucking over it now! Will you drive the friggin' car?!"

Three heads are turned towards Casey now. He seems to shrink a bit, as though he feels abruptly responsible for this drama. "It won't be…" he mumbles.

"What's that?" Sasha prompts.

"I said…" He addresses Zeke. "It won't be very comfortable for you."

Inspired by this gesture towards truce, Zeke softens. "I'll be fine, Case."

Casey stares off to the side; he looks like he has something more to say but isn't quite getting it said. Zeke takes a few steps and all but cuddles him right there on the sidewalk. He says something, then Casey says something, none of it audible but it's having the right effect: Casey's chin is lifting. He nods, a couple of times. I hear an, "Okay."

So we are only a little late getting on the road and just a bit later still because we must stop for coffee and muffins. Well, Sasha and I have muffins — Zeke and Casey insist on donuts. I try not to comment too much on the things they like to eat when no one is forcing them to eat real food.

Maybe Zeke had good reasons for the early start. I mean, it's a wonder that Casey is ever on time. Don't get me wrong — he has a lot of skills now, but he's just not used to being his own navigator. Like, for example, he drives just fine but he keeps take the longer way when there's a shorter one. I'm trying really hard to keep my mouth shut and so is Zeke, so it's almost ten before we're out of Seattle.

But it's all good, because it's my day off, and we're blasting down the highway with the windows open and the radio is playing. I can smell the sea.

"Can you smell it?" I can't help but say.

"What?" Zeke demands.

"The ocean."

He sniffs. "Not really."

"I can," Casey says. "Kinda…wet and salty."

"I hope you're paying a little bit of attention to the yellow line," Zeke says.

"Yes, Zeke," Casey replies sweetly.

From the front seat, Sasha makes a face at Zeke. In reply, Zeke grabs a donut from the box sitting between the two of us and crams it in his mouth. Sasha moans, "Ugh...!"

"What?" Casey wants to know.

"He just stuffed his face with a donut."

"So?" Zeke challenges, his mouth full.

"Nothing. Nothing at all."

A minute or two later, Zeke speaks up. "Watch for the exit."

Sasha retorts, "We've got it, Zeke."

"I'm just saying."

"I hear you, Mr. Back Seat Driver."

Zeke harrumphs, folding his arms.

"He's just used to being behind the wheel," Casey explains, as if it were really necessary.

"No kidding," Sasha replies.

"You know," Zeke shoots from the back seat to the front, "I would think twice about abusing the guy whose car we're in."

"We're not abusing you!"

"Sure seems like it."

"I'm sorry, Zeke," Casey says. "I was just trying to say…you know, I get it."

For some reason, I find myself trying to get a glimpse of his face right now, maybe because he sounds so calm. I can't see it, but I do catch a bit of his hands, squarish and small, steady on the wheel. I have this moment when I'm convinced that my life is in the hands of a complete stranger.

"What have we got for music?" Sasha asks.

Zeke begins, "There's some CDs in the thing on the floor — " but I came prepared. I wrestle a CD out of my jacket pocket, pass it forward. Sasha takes it, looks, and sniggers.

"What?" Zeke says. "What is it?"

"A surprise," I say.

"I don't like surprises."

I snort, and he gives me a glare.

The first strains of Madonna's Immaculate Collection fill the car, eliciting a giggle from the driver's seat. I am pleased.

"What is this crap?" Zeke growls.

"'Holidaaay! Celebrate!'" I sing, in tandem with Sasha, waggling my brows at Zeke.

"Oh, fuck, no!"

"Fuck, yes… 'If we took a holidaaay…took some time to celebrate…'"

Zeke bellows, "Casey!"

"Yeah?"

"You're the driver, you have veto power."

"I do?"

"Yeah, you do."

"Okay."

Casey does absolutely nothing.

"Are you going to do something?"

"I don't mind this, Zeke."

"Oh…fuck me…"

"Sorry."

"You're not sorry."

Zeke pouts all the way through "Lucky Star." Glowers through "Borderline." By the time we get to "Like a Virgin," however, he seems to be reconciled, especially since he is being treated to the spectacle of all three of us singing at the top of our lungs: "'Like a virgin…touched for the very first time…! Like a ver-er-er-er-gin…with your heartbeat…next to mine! Gonna give you all my love, boy…'"

Yeah, I love Madonna.

Zeke doesn't say anything when the turn onto Maritime Road comes along, and Casey breaks off singing, negotiates it with complete self-reliance.

Still, there is a bit of a sigh when we finally pull into the lot — not that anyone was worried. There are quite a few cars in the lot despite it being before noon. So again, maybe Zeke was right.

The rest of our journey is executed on foot. When we exit the car, Casey takes a few moments to make nice with Zeke, going over to snuggle and whisper to him with unmistakable sexual import. I see a woman, part of some buttoned down, statistically correct family foursome, sneering a little at the sight. I want to stick my tongue out at her, then stick it down my boyfriend's throat. But my boyfriend just does not do public displays of affection.

I firmly believe that bigots of whatever stripe are headed for hell. I don't entirely believe in hell, but they so often do, and I think that they make that afterlife for themselves. I think God is appalled by hatred and intolerance and I think he, or it, if he's a real God, has to be better than us. What use would It be, otherwise? What sort of Supreme Being would aspire to being so hateful and judgmental?

This is getting a bit heavy…but I do this when I get into the outdoors. Nature just has that effect on me, and it's in full glory today. I see some of the strain lifting even from Zeke, who would probably rather drag himself uphill by his eyebrows than admit it. Of course, he coughs up half a lung just getting the half mile from the parking lot to the lookout, but he gets contemplative when he catches sight of the view. It is not merely the ocean, but mountainous peninsulas or islands off the distance, all lush green, spotted with brown and canopied with blue. Families and tourists are around us snapping pictures and Casey has his camera too but for some reason he seems to want just to look.

"It's so…" he says softly, searching, then settling for, "beautiful."

"Yeah," Sasha agrees. "But kind of overwhelming, too, you know? Not like around where I grew up. It's all small and medium-sized lakes…feels different."

"You could get lost," Casey says.

Something in his voice makes me look, to try to get a clue about where his head is.

He continues, "But it's not scary…wouldn't be scary…because you don't feel it."

"Don't feel what?"

"Lost. You feel…you belong."

He has gone completely strange now, and we are staring.

"She came from a place that was all ocean."

"Who?" Sasha asks.

But Zeke seems to know. He is frowning, all of his tension back and then some. He says, voice a little breathless, a little high, "How do you know?"

"She told me…told me about the ocean, right before I killed her."

It has gone terribly quiet. Casey turns, though, and sees us all looking stricken. He laughs, and no one is especially reassured. "I'm not going to jump in there or anything! It'd be way cold!"

"Fuggin' cold," Zeke agrees, his voice rough.

With a throat-clearing, Sasha asks, "So…no picture?"

Casey shakes his head. "These kind never look as good as you think they're going to. Too bright. Too beautiful…"

This last makes no sense to me, but Zeke says, “Right."

"Oh, yeah?" I wonder out loud.

"Taking a picture can be a kind of violence," Zeke explains, still watching Casey. He moves in tighter, puts an arm around Casey's abdomen, pulling him tighter still. Casey twitches, his shoulders moving, heading ducking down. I can tell that he doesn't like it but he stays in place.

"Okay," I reply, not really getting it.

I find both Casey and Zeke looking at me like they sure as fuck know what they're talking about and I'm just an idiot who doesn’t have a clue about reality. Suddenly, I see the two of them as very much alone in the world. Alone with their ways, their past, their secrets. Poor kids. I don't necessarily believe in that alien stuff, but something happened to them. Transformed them to this.

"It's not so way out," Zeke begins to argue. "Lots of cultures — "

"Yes, Zeke," Sasha says. "We believe you."

"Can I finish a thought, here?"

"I know what you mean," Casey states. He runs a hand lightly over Zeke's forearm, then steps forward, removing himself from Zeke's grip, staring out at the view, and again he is a complete stranger to me, maybe even to Sasha and Zeke. I can just see him in profile, see him squinting into the light.

I see Zeke's lips — no, his entire face goes thin and tight. All sorts of things, none of them happy, pass over Zeke's face, and he is turning away without a word, heading up the trail, going higher, and all alone.

Look! I scream silently at Casey. Look!

I don't know how or why but it is quite obvious to me that something big is happening with Zeke. Let's just say I know about these things…like, being embroiled in crisis, unable to go on a moment longer and — no, not and, not just and, I mean because, I mean too…your lover doesn't seem to know or care.

I cannot remain silent. I will not, never mind my repeated admonitions to Sasha. In one more second, words will burst from me, I will take a step, intervene. I will be involved in a way I haven't been before, and I will be lost. But still I will speak, because I can't bear not to when Casey is still facing the sea with his eyes closed and faint smile on his lips while Zeke is walking away from him.

But before I have to do myself in this way, lose all credibility with Sasha forever, Casey's eyes open and he turns, questing on some silent signal. "Zeke?"

He runs after Zeke, who has just disappeared over the rise just ahead.

The humbling of Jerry is not over yet, though, for I have just realized that I have a very strong wish to do something else that would severely damage my credibility. I'm not supposed to be the guy who wants to eavesdrop on Casey and Zeke. My line is: It's none of our business. But dammit, this time I really want to know, because it affects my life too.

I look at Sasha. Sasha looks at me.

"Shall we go see what's up…there?" I offer casually. I nearly sigh it, as though it isn't more path and more ocean, as though I'm just indulging my boyfriend's obsessions.

Sasha looks solemn for a second. Then he grins and says, "Nah."

I am startled into saying, "Really?"

"I don't think it's a good idea, do you?"

"Uh…no. No, you're right."

I smile approvingly at him, and I think Well, shit.

The ride home is entirely different in character. Now Sasha has become the driver and Zeke and Casey are curled up in the back seat. They came back down that hill holding hands and have not been detached since.

"Well," Sasha announced, "I think I'd like to try my hand at some Thai for supper. What do you all think?"

There is barely a sound from the back. "Sounds great, babe," I reply, and then Casey pipes up.

"Sure, Sasha."

"I'm thinking lettuce wraps, chicken satay with peanut sauce, pad thai…nothing too complicated."

"Are you sure you want to do that?" I ask. "It's such a gorgeous day."

"Nah, I feel like it…got my hands on this new shrimp sauce from Singapore. Can't wait to try it."

"All right, then." It's not how I'd want to spend my day off, but I guess that's why he's a chef and I'm a waiter.

"Zeke?"

"Huh?"

I glance into the back seat, where Zeke seems completely electrified by the person next to him. I really not sure who assuaged who when they were talking, or whatever they were doing. I still rather want to know.

"Do you like Thai?"

"I like food, Sasha. You know that."

Sasha is content. "Thai, it is."

By the time we get home, he is more than a little disgusted by the display in the back seat, and assigns Casey and Zeke to grocery detail. Still, they are giggling and smirking at each other as Sasha delivers his instructions.

"You can get all this at my usual spot," he advises, nodding at Casey, who tears himself away from Zeke long enough to acknowledge it. "Zeke…you wanna write this down?"

"I'll remember it."

"You sure? Well…okay. Peanuts…raw peanuts."

"Raw peanuts," Zeke echoes absently, glancing at Casey out of the corner of his eye.

"That means not roasted or salted."

"Got it."

"Cilantro."

"Nasty green stuff — I'm kidding! Cilantro."

"Make sure it's cilantro and not parsley."

"Check."

"Seriously, Zeke — "

"I can tell them apart, cilantro has that smell, okay?"

"Okay. Bean sprouts."

"Bean sprouts."

"Rice vermicelli."

"Rice — hey!" Zeke whirls and tries to grab Casey, who it seems has pinched him somewhere sensitive.

"Casey!" Sasha barks.

Casey is a picture of innocence. "What?"

"Do you think we can focus just for a second?"

"Okay."

"You're not helping Zeke to remember."

"I'll remember," Zeke says with an eye roll. "Raw peanuts, cilantro, bean sprouts, rice vermicelli…"

"…and lemon grass, and deveined shrimp. Fifteen count or larger."

"Say again?"

"I know what it means," Casey says. He tugs Zeke's shirt. "Let's go."

"Okay." Half-turning, he mutters, "Gonna get you…fruit loop."

Casey gives him a look that can only be counted a dare.

I sigh once they are gone and observe, "I don't imagine they'll be back any time within the next two hours."

Sasha whips a look at me. He grimaces. "Even they can't take that long." He returns his attention to the counter, where he has collected all the dirty dishes. "I think there's a coupla things in the living room. Could you grab them for me, babe?"

"You bet."

The living room is disorderly, more than I like a room to be: newspapers, a DVD case, a dirty plate and cup, and a vinyl covered book — which, as I bend closer, intent on collecting it and returning it to its proper destination along with the rest of the mess, I realize is Casey's journal.

I know he has one. I've seen him writing in it often enough, and heard him mention homework even more frequently. I'm surprised he has left it out here; I suppose it could have been from before he went to do his driving test, left and forgotten last night in the heat of whatever they did here last night.

As I stare at it, an irresistible compulsion forms. I know that Zeke and Sasha would never think of invading Casey's privacy so completely — but me? I'm not so very intimate with him and I just want a glimpse into his head. I want an insight into what he's feeling these days, because it does impinge on my life. I want him to be okay, not scared, reasonably happy, and I want him to love Zeke, because if all of those things are true then maybe I can ask Sasha to move in with me. And I can not feel guilty about insisting.

Oh, hell. I just want to know, okay? I would never share anything with Sasha or Zeke, and I would never let Casey know that I know what he's thinking just this little bit.

"What're you doing in there?" Sasha calls.

I grab the journal, tuck it into the waistband of my jeans, covering it with my shirt. Then I pick up the dirty dishes. I deliver them to Sasha from the other side of the kitchen island, and continue onwards.

"Where are you going?"

"Bathroom?"

"Oh."

I walk, in no particular hurry, down the hall. I shut the door and close the toilet lid, sitting down. With a long breath, I crack open the book, flipping it to the last used page.

As I thought, Casey was writing in this book just before his test.

I was nervous about the driving test, did a mood log and I feel better. I want to get this right, for Zeke, and especially for my dad. Well, it's a test so I should be fine. I'm good at tests.

That's it, from yesterday. Disappointed, I begin flipping backwards until my eye catches the name I'm looking for.

Steve just left, Casey has written, only a week ago. I swear I'm still twitching. I can't believe what he does to me. I love his strength. He is so powerful, I feel like he has the power to break me. But he doesn't. Next time, I'm going to tell him not to hold back.

I can't explain to Yves how a good fuck makes me feel. I've tried but it's like she doesn't get it. Maybe she doesn't want to get it, I feel like she's always trying to make me admit it's just sex.

A few days later, Steve pops up again.

I am obsessed with Steve's cock. I asked Yves if I'm terrible and she says my only obligation is to be honest with myself and with Zeke. I'm not so sure. I still feel kind of bad about it, not because of Steve but because of Zeke. I absolutely don't love Steve. I like him. I need him. I need the things I learn when I'm with him. Always learning with him!

Like when Yves asked me how it's different, being with Zeke, I could actually tell her. It's like everything means something with him. It's easy with Steve and sometimes it's easy with Zeke but never in the same way. Sometimes I want to scream at him to go away, stop touching me, stop making everything mean SO MUCH. But then when he's not around, all I want is for him to come back.

Yves says she doesn't know if that's love or not. She says she doesn't have a definition. Figures.

He makes me feel so much. Some times I think I hate him for it. I love it when we fuck too, even if I feel awful after. Sometimes I cling to him like I always did before and sometimes I just want to get away. I have to get up and shower, and I know it hurts him.

I startle to the sound of Zeke's voice, accompanied by Casey's laugh. My heart pounds and I slam the book closed as though I have actually been caught. My face is blazing hot.

There is no reason not to be casual about this. I tuck the book back into its camouflage under my shirt and open the door. Zeke is in view at the end of the hall, lifting two paper sacs. He nods at me, continuing smoothly with his task.

Casey is nowhere to be seen — sitting at the table, I guess, or in the living room. I walk not-quite-quickly towards his room and turn in —

Only to come face-to-face with Casey in the act of putting on a clean t-shirt, his shirt from earlier today lying on the floor at his feet. He has one arm in and one arm out, and he stares at me. "Hi," he says, putting his other arm through its sleeve. He looks puzzled, not alarmed, and why should he be? I am a trusted friend.

My face continues to roast as though I were turning on a spit.

"Hi," I croak. "Um — wrong turn."

He makes a face, because this is obviously a lie.

And I am done. It’s time to face the music, because I’m just an ordinary dude who did a stupid thing. This is not make-believe. Like, in books and movies and television people are always Johnny-on-the-spot, coming up with clever ideas under pressure so they can avoid being discovered lying or sneaking or whatever it is they’re trying to hide. But I am not one of those tv-book-movie people. I consider myself caught and it doesn’t occur to me to do some fancy dance to try and get away.

I close the door behind me, very gently, then pull out the journal and hand it to him. He stares down at it, then up at me. His cheeks go pink. "I left it…" he whispers.

"In the living room.”

He seems to have no response but to stare at me, as though he were the one who was just caught being naughty.

I suck in as much air as I can which is not easy because this is just so awful. “I found it...but that's no excuse…"

He blurts, "You read it."

"Just a few pages…near the end."

"Why?"

Of all the things he could say right now, this is not what I would have expected.

"I wanted…" I close my eyes, forced to examine my own motives, and open them to say, "I wanted to know what's going to happen." Because it’s true, even if it’s ridiculous. For the last half hour or so I have been a little insane, believing that everything that matters in my life somehow hinges on Casey’s secrets, Casey’s feelings.

"How could it tell you that?"

"It couldn't. I'm sorry, Casey." I cough. I repeat it, unable to look at him. I am looking at the t-shirt crumpled in a ball on the floor. "I'm sorry."

I hear what seems to be mumbling. I look up, and he is avoiding looking at me too, his lips moving.

“What’s that?” I ask.

"…must be horrified."

"Horrified? By myself, yeah."

"No…horrified by me."

“Why would I be horrified by you?”

“Be-because...”

God, I really don’t like this scene. I hate having to question him, force him to explain when I’m the one who invaded his privacy. But I put myself here. It’s my own fault. “Because what?”

“Steve... the things I wrote about...about sex with...h-him...”

"Casey…no. Just because you enjoy sex with this Steve — "

"I get lost," he blurts. "I can't feel my body…and I like it. It's always been that way."

I don't know what to say. I desperately want a way out of this room.

"I feel her," he whispers, and I'm not even sure he's intending anyone to hear it, least of all me. "I am... her…like her. I have to be…"

"Casey, don't."

"You read it."

"I don't know what you — "

"I'm always going to be this way."

And he surges forward. He is clinging to me.

Oh, my god, help me. I am so not the person for this to be happening to. How am I supposed to respond to this? I truly have no idea, it is so far from my understanding. I'm not sure who she is and even if I did I wouldn't know what this means.

"It's okay," I whisper, and pat his back.

"Don't tell anyone," he begs. "Please."

"No. Of course not."

"Don't tell."

"I swear I won't."

I am absolutely not lying.

Casey backs up. His eyes are wet and enormous. "You're great," he says, almost shyly, like he's trying to flirt. It's probably a reflex, nothing much to do with me, but it makes me even more uncomfortable.

"Not really," I protest.

"Yeah…you are."

“I read your diary, Casey. That was not a great thing to do.”

“I understand why,” he says, still playing the coquette with me, just a little. “I’m kinda...between you and Sasha.”

I put a hand on his arm, because I really want him to understand this. “You are definitely not between me and Sasha.”

Is this a pitying look he is giving me? I’m not sure. He says, “I mean that Sasha's…he's too wrapped up in what's going on with me. It's not good for him.”

Well, colour me surprised.

Casey says quietly, “I want Sasha to be happy...and you. And Zeke.” He sounds sad, regretful, as though he fears none of us can ever have anything that impossible.

Happiness is not impossible, to my way of thinking, but the way he talks about it, it’s the holy grail. As if you quest for it, you find it, and then you never let it go. As if anything in life ever worked that way.

I make my voice soft. I hope I sound kind and fatherly. “Casey. Can I ask you something?”

“Yeah.”

"Do you love Zeke?"

He draws himself up, very nearly indignant for a second and then abruptly deciding not to be, deflating. "Why do you want to know?"

God, I'm sweating here.

"I guess…because I'm hoping you do."

He is blinking at me. Then: "Zeke says I am. He keeps telling me."

"But you don't believe him?"

"Sometimes I do." Casey shrugs, and to my eyes he looks very, very young. "Sometimes…I don't know what I feel."

"Welcome to the human race."

"Whuh?" he stammers, eyes blinking rapidly. "Wh-why do you say that?"

"Because it's pretty normal not to be sure of your own feelings sometimes, you know? It doesn't mean you don't love someone — just because you can't feel it a hundred percent of the time."

"Really?"

Again, I wonder how he got to be twenty years old and yet lack so much basic knowledge. How to drive. What feelings mean…but to be fair, we're all working on that last one all the time, aren't we?

"Really." I lean in, whisper, "Sometimes I look at Sasha and I wonder who the hell this guy is sitting in my car."

Casey smiles, a little.

"You love Sasha, right?" I continue.

"Yeah…of course."

"But sometimes I'll bet you don't feel like you love him, huh?"

He stares, then utters a tiny giggle. "Yeah."

"But you never doubt that you love him. I asked you and you didn't even hesitate."

"That's true."

"So why should it be any different with Zeke?"

He knocks me right out of the park with, "Because with Zeke there's so much more at stake. I mean — it's not like I'm having sex with Sasha."

I have no answer to this. I'm just a waiter, after all.

"But you're right," he goes on, working things out. "I do kinda… overthink things." A sudden smile gets me right in the gut. It's the old one-two — first with the devastating logic, then with the charm. And then to finish me off, he sidles forward and gives me a completely spontaneous hug. It is sincere, too: just the right length, unembarrassed, warm. "Thank you, Jerry."

"My pleasure," I manage, and lean backwards, signalling an end to the hug.

I watch him as he places his journal on the bedside table, and I think about how much I wanted to ask Sasha to move in with me, and how it seemed so important, just minutes ago, to be in possession of certain information. God, I have been ridiculous, thinking Sasha moving out of here and in with me would somehow be the consummation of our relationship. I think that on some level I did feel like Casey was in the way. I have been wanting to take Sasha away from him.

There's no rush, really. Better for Sasha to stay here for now, and sleep over at my place as much as he wants. Better for all of us, because if I did insist on Sasha moving out...well, let’s just say I don’t want to find out exactly how much Casey needs him. Or how much he needs Casey, still.

I really should know better. Didn’t my ma always tell me that it takes a long time after things been torn up for nature to put them right again? Sure, she was usually talking about me not picking at the scab I had from wiping out on my bicycle, but the principle still applied. There’s no such thing as fast healing.

And besides, there’s plenty of time.

Back in Ordinary Land, Zeke has been recruited. He is stirring a pan full of what appears to be homemade peanut sauce, while Sasha washes the bean sprouts and the cilantro. The shrimp have already been peeled.

Casey worms in under Zeke's arm and snuggles close to him and the sauce.

"Easy!" Zeke yelps. He looks a little surprised, but he doesn't attempt to dislodge Casey. "It's hot."

Casey just pushes his face in against Zeke, saying nothing.

"What was going on in there?" Sasha demands. "All hush-hush in the bedroom?"

"A private conversation," is all I will admit. "Between me and Casey."

Both Sasha and Zeke look suspicious to the point of panic. Both want to demand more, but what has passed between me and Casey just now neither of us is going to tell.

"You have a task for me?" I say, keeping it light.

"Yeah. Could you beat a couple of eggs for me?"

"Sure."

"Not too much."

"What about me?" Casey asks, shifting to speak.

"You can help Zeke stir the peanut sauce," Sasha replies, deadpan.

"Sasha!"

"Seriously. It's a two-person job."

"Give me a break," Zeke grunts.

"Fine," Casey says loftily, wriggling away from Zeke. "I think I'll call my dad. Tell him the good news."

"That's a good idea."

Casey goes in search of the phone, leaving Sasha washing, me beating, and Zeke stirring. Shortly, we hear Casey on the phone, and we shamelessly eavesdrop — all three of us.

"Hi, Mom…it's Casey. Hey…what's new…? Really? Wow…Hey, mom? Guess what? I got my driver's license…Yeah… Just yesterday… Yeah… Can I talk to him? That'll be so cool if you guys can visit more…"

Sasha's head comes up. He makes a face at Zeke, who shrugs in reply.

"…okay. Love you, too, Mom. Kay…bye…Hi, Dad…Pretty good…yeah, well…I passed my driving test. I got my license…"

Is it just me, or are there three men in a kitchen making pad thai while holding their breath?

"Thanks, Dad," Casey says, and just from his tone, we know we can breathe.

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