Letters in the First Year
Dear Ben,
I can’t think of another person in the world with whom I can share what has happened to me. You have been a mentor to me since I was a kid. I thank you for teaching me everything you did, when Mom just left me in the kitchen with you, because she had bigger things to do, and you begrudgingly kept an eye on me.
I remember watching you create for the restaurant those fantastic cakes that were all the rage. I remember when I was five, I couldn’t wait to run to the kitchen, put on the tiny apron you bought me, and do the important work of sifting the flour or cutting up the fruits, or—oddly—the vegetables for the concoctions you were creating. But, I need to thank you, Ben, for so much more than the baking education.
When I was ten, I told you that I’d fallen in love with not just one person, but two, and I admitted how confused I was. You sat me down and told me about yourself. You’ve been so much more than just a teacher of food. You’ve grown with me, told me that our hearts can’t pick and choose, that when it’s real, I’ll truly know. I remember when I was fifteen, you convinced Mother to support the local pride festival, and we baked rainbow cookies and cakes, and then sold out.
It’s been hard finding anyone who compares to you.
Then I was eighteen, and you told me I could do anything with my life. There was that time when you signed the paperwork that said I was going to be a shoo-in for the CIA. I still remember how cool my friends thought it was that I was becoming a secret agent…and the assholes who said things had gotten lax since they were letting fags in. But then I proudly admitted the “CIA” was the Culinary Institute of America. I was sad to move to New York, but you and I both knew it would be the best thing for me—getting on with my life, getting away from the small minds, and being among my element.
You know Bree finally met the man of her dreams? His name is Hubert Dupuis, and they got married in the spring in Paris. I headed out there a week before; my parents sent me early to scout places to work, but I had a better idea. I was interested in the intensive we’d talked about. You told me all about it a long time ago—said it was where you first learned everything you did.
So, I went to Paris. I wish I could say that I spent every day looking for a place to call home after graduation, but instead I found romance. I found a man who made me come alive. Like your own Pierre.
This man made me feel amazing, made me love myself, my art, and taught me things I could never imagine being taught. The worst part of this equation is his name. I do hope you will keep this with you, forever. I promised I would tell no one, but I need to get it off my chest. His name is Hubert Dupuis, and yes, I knew he was my sister’s fiancé.
He’s bisexual, and she’d told him he could have one last fling. He’d found out I was coming to Paris early, and he wanted to meet me. He didn’t expect that what happened would happen. It was an explosion of desire, Ben. I can’t believe my good fortune, and yet…I can’t imagine how I can go on with this knowledge hidden in a scarlet lock we placed on the bridge.
Always,
Brandon
Dear Ben,
In your last letter you asked me how it felt to know that I was my brother-in-law’s last fling. I know it’s hard to believe, but it’s pretty much out of my mind, because I’m trying to finish school. Oh sure, he pops into my thoughts every now and again, but usually when I see the finance book on my shelf. Aside from that, he’s not living in my mind.
I was invited to his bachelor’s party by his cute little brother; I think he was who I was expected to hook up with. We flirted, and I kissed him a few times during the night. At that time, Hubert was just removed from me, so I smiled a lot when I saw him. When Roeland lowered his hand down my back, I did have that strange feeling it was actually Hubert.
All right, I’m not going to lie, it was a little tough the first couple of times we were together. A part of me wanted it to be me feeding him the baguette with the butter, instead of Bree. There were a few times where our eyes met and I hungered for his lips on my neck, the way they were on Bree’s. But, I knew that we’d locked that love away; it was safely attached to the bridge.
The night before the wedding, after the rehearsal dinner, we both had rolled up our sleeves and stood over the sink washing the dishes. I’d scrub, he’d dip and dry and place the dishes on the counter to be put away in his mother’s cupboards. Roeland came in to help, but the dishes hadn’t even been washed. The three of us just looked at each other and laughed.
“All right, I’ll start scrubbing, one of you wash, and then one of you bring in the dirties. I need to get used to doing the dishes if I want to be a chef. I know I’ll have to start off at the bottom to work my way up.”
Hubert laughed at that one, a little too long, and then he rolled up his sleeves and moved to rinse the plates. “Roe, you go and get the other dirties, ’kay?” He watched as Roeland left the kitchen. Our hands brushed in the sink, lingered…a little too long. I felt sparks race up my spine.
“Why’d you choose me?” I leaned in to whisper.
“I didn’t, until it was too late. I…you were sitting there. You had this look on your face, of beauty. I wanted to see if I still had it in me, and, well…all week, Brandon.”
“So, why continue with the marriage?”
“I made a commitment. I am bisexual, I am monogamous, I was given one last fling by her.”
“So, I’m supposed to just forget everything that happened?”
The door swung open, and in walked Roe with a stack of plates. “I’ll be back with some flatware and glasses, and then I’ll help put things away.” He placed the stack next to me and was out the door again.
“No, you don’t need to forget. That’s why we placed the lock, to remember the amazing week we had.” Hubert refrained from touching me the rest of the washing session.
“Okay, and you will be able to just store me in a lock and not remember the kisses, the touches, the conversation and lust?”
“Yes, I’ve told you. Bree knew I was bisexual, knew she was allowing me one last fling with a man. I am hers totally from this point forward. She will be my wife, and I will do whatever I need to make her happy. I am and will always be attracted to men. I just won’t act on it.”
“So you are going into the closet after the vows are said?”
“Oui, in a way. I will not act on it. I will embarrass your sister probably, by pointing out men to her, but she does that with women—asks me if I’d rather be with them.” He snickered.
“We will run into each other throughout the rest of our lives, Hubert. I am planning on taking the Ferrandi Intensive Professional program, and you should expect me to be around.” I don’t know if I said it to make him angry, or to convince myself that I was going to be a constant in his life.
“It will be a test, Brandon. Will you be able to keep your hands off my hot, sexy body?” He laughed and splashed me a little with the water.
I splashed him back, just as Roe entered with a napkin full of flatware. “Oi, guys. What’s going on?”
“It’s a water fight…” And before anyone knew it, Roe had gotten a water pitcher, filled it and tossed it at both of us. We were soaking and laughing, slipping on the floor. I pulled Hubert on top of me, and Roe slid to a teeter as the door opened again.
“What in the hell is going on in here?” Bree shouted, just as Roe fell on top of the pile, pressing me into Hubert. Our bodies were crushed together, his hand in my crotch, my lips on his neck just below his ear. I felt Roe’s hands grab my ass. It was a cluster of hands and arms, legs and feet. The three of us were laughing, I felt a kiss on the back of my neck, I kissed the neck in front of me, and then I heard people running in.
They were pulling us apart, and Bree was checking Hubert. “Oh, please tell me you are all right, that my klutz brother didn’t break anything.” She was half joking, half telling the truth. I mean, I was a little bit of a klutz as a kid.
Roe pulled me up and cup
ped my cheek, whispering in my ear, “You’ve got a nice ass, brother-in-law to be.” He winked and pinched my cheek as he caught the towel his father threw to him.
“So, can someone explain what happened in here?” their mother asked.
Hubert spoke up. “Brandon splashed me a little, and I splashed harder. It got out of hand, and Roe fucked it up more by tossing a pitcher of water on both of us. We fell, but, Mother, trust us. We will clean up our mess.”
I’m doing the best I can, remembering what was said, you know? But, maybe my mind was clouded by desire.
So, leading up to the actual wedding, I met with several chefs in the area, checked out restaurants and two excellent pastry schools. When I get back to America, you and I can discuss my future in pastry, and I’ll probably need a shoulder to cry on.
Truth be told, if I’d met Roeland first, I don’t think I’d have fallen for him at all. There was just something about Hubert. And now I know, because it was a fling, a week of love and then loss.
I understand I need to put it out of my mind. I’ll be home in about another week. Then it’s back to nose in book and hands in dough. Think of me. I know you’ll be sending me another question soon.
Always,
Brandon
Dear Ben,
All this studying is giving me a terrible headache. I decided to take a sit down and answer a few more of your questions. You are a mean friend, but I figure if I can’t answer these, how can I go about my life, right?
How does it feel to know that you slept with your sister’s fiancé without her knowledge? Don’t hate me for this, but I don’t feel guilty in the least. Hubert told me that Bree allowed him one last fling before getting married. You know we put a lock on the love bridge, to remember our love forever. I suggested it as a silly little thing; I really didn’t think he’d go for it, but he did.
Ben, you can’t imagine that week. We did so much in those tiny moments we had. We talked and walked, and we cooked and made love, like real love—not the silly rush to rip each other’s clothes off, though we did that, too. We made love like you read about in books, with soft lips and fingers, the tip of the tongue circling a nipple. And the sex wasn’t the most important part. It was holding hands and laughing at odd people in the street.
He rowed me all along the Seine. I listened to him recite passages from this old finance book he bought in a used bookstore, and I was fascinated with the sound of his voice and the currency in this country.
We went to used bookstores, cheese stalls, fruit vendors, and The Crazy Horse. We had sex everywhere you could think of, and just when I didn’t think I could imagine waking up with him in my arms for only one more day, it happened. We were separated.
I know why Bree fell in love with him. He’s gorgeous, his charisma is magnetic, his body is delicious, and his mouth is a font of pleasure.
So, I really wish I could say I feel guilty, but I didn’t know until the next morning, and by then I was invested in his last fling. The lock sealed it; we were connected forever.
Always,
Brandon
Dear Ben,
Before I get to your answer, I feel I need to explain why it’s taken me so long to get back to you. I have been in the process of graduation and making arrangements with Bree and Hubert to meet with them once I get settled in Paris. I know what you are going to say, that I’m tempting fate by moving close to the target of my lust, or some stupid phrase like that. You know I’m laughing even as I write it, and I know there’s a chuckle coming out of your mouth, too.
Seriously, since I’ve been focusing on school lately, I’ve pushed that little fling to the back of my mind. I’ve dealt with the fact that he’s married to Bree; he’s not married to me. He’s my brother-in-law, and that’s how it’ll remain. Sure, if I’d met him first, we might be together, but I don’t think I’m marriage material. My life is too frantic, and I’m too chained to my stove and the pastry.
I’ve been accepted to the intensive course we’ve discussed. It’s a nine-month class, and it starts soon. I’m excited. And yes, I talked to Bree about renting out Hubert’s apartment in Paris, but she’d told me he’d already sold it. I’ll admit I felt a loss in my soul for a bit, and I truly realized it was over. I need to have complete faith that our love is contained in that scarlet lock on the bridge.
I was a little embarrassed at the wedding party, because my body reacted to his touch. I will have to refrain from getting that close to him again. It shouldn’t be that big of a deal; Bree told me they were planning on spending a large part of their life in the countryside, and they will be summering in America, so I’m fairly certain that most of our lives we will not connect. If it was meant to happen it would have—you know, if he was meant for me, he and I would have done some sort of The Graduate run-away at the end of the movie, but that’s life for the movies. And neither of us are Dustin Hoffman.
Do you feel guilty, happy, embarrassed, ashamed, or wistful?
I still feel…wistful—I had to look that up in the dictionary. I wanted to make sure I was, and I was totally wrong. Wistful: having or showing a feeling of vague or regretful longing. I think I was a lot more wistful the first couple of months, but now it’s just a distant memory. I remember those times, when my eyes glance over the French finance book, and I’m pretty certain when I walk over that bridge I’ll remember holding his hand and tossing that key.
Do you know that I totally missed the second word, do I feel happy? I have to say that I do, and it’s funny. I feel happy that I fell for a man hook, line and sinker. I just let him pick me up from a café. If he were any other man I’d forget that moment, but it has made an impression on me, has filtered into my studies, has made me more aloof in my pastry creation. That fling brought so much desire and happiness to my life that I feel as though I am capable of anything I set my mind to.
One day, I’ll be brazen enough to pick up some man in a café, like Hubert did with me. I can see me in three or four years’ time, confident in my life, taking a man I just met to my bed, serving him baguettes and cheese and falling in love. When that happens, I won’t lock our love on the bridge; it’s been a sacred place to so many people, but who knows? Maybe I’ll find another love to lock together.
I hope you can make it to my graduation. It’s been far too long since I hugged you. Or maybe you can make it to Paris one day?
Always,
Brandon
3
Anniversary One
Hello, I don’t intend to send this letter. One part of me just wants to rip it up when I’m finished getting my thoughts out on the crisp, linen paper. I felt that my loss of love deserved a nice linen weave. The way the ink moves over this paper, with just an ever-so-fine bump every other word… Go ahead and rub your fingertips over the grain of the paper. When I found this paper, it reminded me of the bumps I felt on his skin after I left a million kisses across his abdomen.
I’m getting ahead of myself. I should let you know what I’m doing here. This is a letter for the loss I’ve felt. A year ago, my weeklong fling and I locked our love on the bridge, along with a few other lovelorn people. Most of them do it on their wedding day, exactly like my twin. I stood back, smiled, and kept up appearances as they locked their golden lock on the fencing, when just a week earlier, I’d locked a scarlet lock there. I remembered finding the lock as we moved to where they’d planned on placing theirs. She wanted it in the exact middle of the bridge. Ours was down to the left, surrounded by other locks with male names on them, as though we were in the gay ghetto of the bridge.
Joanne, my younger sister, slipped her arm around my back, sighing.
She told me she wished one day to place her own solid gold lock on the bridge, and I almost told her about mine, but I remembered my fling, and I had made a decision. Locking our love on that bridge sealed any talk of anything that happened.
That was a year ago. A few days after that, I was on a flight back home to upstate New York, where I finished m
y schooling. And three months later, I came back to school in Paris—the city where my life changed forever.
I can’t believe it’s been a year.
I’ve finished the intensive, and I’m now working at a boulangerie in the city, creating the most amazing pastries. I rise every morning at three a.m., take a run around the roof terrace, and then follow it all up with a quick walk to the bakery station I’ve made my little home.
I’ve only thought of H once…all right, three times. I had a few minor boyfriends during the intensive, but we were so focused on work that when we had time to play we typically fell asleep. P stuck it out past graduation. We’d worked on several projects together and were hired by the same boulangerie on a trial run. I wanted it so much I did everything to outshine him, which he took out on me in the bedroom.
I don’t know if this has happened to you, dear reader. Just when you think you’ve found the right one, they surprise you with a slap across the face, or a yank of the arm. It was the third time I’d seen H, when I showed up on their doorstep, begging for a place to crash until P and I broke apart.
H opened the door, and I stood there, cradling my arm, tears streaming down my bruised face. He reached out for me, and I couldn’t move. I asked if B was home; he turned and shouted for her, his arms still outstretched. I can’t tell you why I couldn’t go towards him. I think it had to do with our commitment; I didn’t want to break what we’d vowed. But, I needed their help.
B stood behind H, looking over his shoulder at me. She pushed H aside and embraced me, I finally lay my good cheek on her shoulder and caught H’s glance. I sighed and closed my eyes.
They took me to the emergency, to get the arm set and look for other injuries. My boss was called and informed of the attack by my coworker. P was fired, and I felt it was enough. I didn’t want to press any charges, and it was probably my fault anyway. Reader, that’s what I thought. I was so frightened of him, that I just wanted him out of my life.
In His Arms Page 2