by Tal Bauer
He was, to the world, exactly what he’d remade himself as: Tom Brewer—now Judge Tom Brewer—dedicated to a life of civil service. A valiant defender of the law, pursuer of justice. He foreswore relationships due to the fiery purity of his convictions, his steadfast dedication to the pursuit of truth, justice, and the American way. Defending justice left no time for love. He was a warrior of the law.
He was a terrified gay man, hiding in plain sight, locked in the closet of his own fears. Velvet rage thundered through his veins, and he watched the generations of gay men who grew up after him live open lives, seize their futures, be proud of themselves and their partners. How many openly gay attorneys had he served beside in the years after 1991?
Things were different, these days.
Mike was, obviously, openly gay. Secure enough to show his judge a picture of him and his boyfriend. Ex-boyfriend.
He’d never heard a rumor. Never heard a hushed whisper or a sideways comment. Not even a squeak.
Sighing, he folded over his counter, bracing his elbows on the cool granite. His house was a shrine to a life half-lived, hours he’d spent perfecting his DC townhome—in the poshest zip code—as an abattoir of empty dreams. He’d never planned to share his home with anyone, but he’d built everything for two. Two barstools. A kitchen nook for two, cozy and loving. A leather chair large enough to cuddle in, beside a quaint fireplace. Everything in twos, two by two by two, like he was mocking himself every day with the thought, the hope, the dream he could never have.
He spent his nights in a bed big enough for him and another. There was practically dust on the unused side of the bed, though. Empty space for a man who would never exist.
He was living half a life, with space carved out for a dream he’d killed in 1991.
Flowers in a vase in the center of his kitchen island caught his eye. They were wilting, petals starting to fall. He’d have to buy more on Saturday. He always bought from the farmers’ market, from the one stand with the brightest blooms. Rollicking freesias and laughing daisies, sassy roses and smart sunflowers. He liked the old man who sold the flowers, an immigrant with a thick accent and a megawatt smile. Short and stocky, and bald as Mr. Clean, with hair sprouting from his ears and curling up his forehead from his eyebrows. He picked the best bouquets for Tom each week, clucking over the flowers, wrapping them in butcher paper, making sure the package didn’t drip. He had a cookie for Etta Mae, too. Over Christmas, Tom had brought him a gift, a basket for his family.
Was that the sum total of his social life? He’d never had close friends, not even in the prosecutors’ office, and now that he was a judge… He was the crypt keeper of his social life, watching cobwebs settle in the corners of his existence.
What would it be like to go to the farmers’ market with someone he loved? Would his partner pick out flowers for him? Would they laugh and tease each other? Would his partner tickle his nose with a tulip, or a sprig of baby’s breath? What if his partner surprised him with flowers, walked in the door with a giant smile, a kiss and a bouquet?
Groaning, Tom slumped and stretched across the counter. His forehead hit the surface, and his breath fogged the dark stone. He’d made his choices. The life he’d lived—had chosen to live—didn’t allow for a partner. Didn’t allow him to even dream of loving another man.
But… things were different these days.
Hope was a cancer. Dreams were a parasite. He’d banished his subconscious yearnings to the dark recesses of his gilded closet years ago.
And yet…
God, he was lonely.
Why couldn’t he have half his life back? What if he wanted to smoosh his face against someone and take a ridiculous selfie with them, perhaps cheat and snag a kiss right before the picture snapped? Because who wouldn’t want to kiss their beloved as much as possible? What if he wanted that, wanted to be happy?
He didn’t want the wash of terror that yearning triggered. The spine-shivering, bone-puckering flinch of his soul. The fear that being open, being out of his padlocked closet, would be the end of everything.
Would it, though? He was a federal judge now, and barring him suddenly leaping headfirst into a wanton criminal spree or accepting bribes to rule in defendants’ favor, he was on the bench for life. He could step down, be impeached if he was a criminal, or die holding his gavel. He’d probably be buried with it still in his hand. That kind of job security didn’t exist anymore.
What if he did find someone? What if he—somehow—found a man who wanted a middle-aged, completely boring, practically re-virginized, servant to a Basset Hound?
If he cracked open the closet door, would he be yanked out all the way? Would his old, awful professor rise from the grave and tell him he was worthless, he was a dirty homo, and he was nothing but a fraud? Would the Senate find some obscure law that would un-approve a federal judge, a congressional ‘oops, our bad, we didn’t know you were like that’?
God, it wasn’t like he would be the only gay judge. There were ten openly gay judges. He’d tracked the nominations of each, tallying them up in his brain like he was collecting proof of the world changing, something to weigh against the inevitable hatred and disdain he always felt reaching for him, witches’ claws in the mist or an anvil hovering above him. He was a cartoon character in his own life, plodding along, waiting for the hammer to fall on his head and the laugh track to play. For the world to roar at him, mock him, scorn him.
But what number would be enough for him to join the ranks? What number of “enough gays” was enough for him to feel safe?
It would always be one less than he needed.
Etta Mae snorted and rolled, kicking the air before flopping to her side. She sighed, huffing, and stretched.
He needed to walk her. She needed her nightly walk before bedtime, the capstone to a long day of naps. In his next life, he was going to be a Basset Hound.
He’d probably be gay then, too. Maybe he could find a stately boy Basset at the dog park to drool with.
Christ, he was pathetic.
He pulled himself up, dragging his wine glass closer. He downed the cabernet in three huge swallows, like he was downing beer—or going down on a man—and ignored the burn at the roof of his mouth, the tightening of his nostrils. Cabernet wasn’t meant to be inhaled, and he coughed as his throat seemed to fill with sand. But, for the moment, he just wanted to drown it all out. Go back to 1991 and drink until he didn’t care if he woke up afterward or not.
Why today? Why was today the day he remembered everything? Why were his dusty dreams rattling the old bones of the skeletons in his closet now?
Because of Mike. Because he’d thought Mike, suave, sophisticated, Mike, ridiculously sexy Mike, professional, perfect Mike, was straight. He’d thought there was a girlfriend, or maybe girlfriends, or even a wife and two point five kids at home with a dog and a perfect picket fence. Mike was the pinnacle of what he’d always admired in a man: kind, confident, funny, strong. Deliciously competent in his job, too.
And he’d never, ever, thought Mike was gay. His gaydar, after all these years, was downright rickety. Less reliable than a leaking submarine. Though, he’d purposely unlearned the signs, had stopped looking for when men would check him out. Stopped making eye contact with strangers, stopped letting his gaze linger on other men long enough to see if they’d make the first move. He’d made his world small.
There was no way. No way at all. He shouldn’t, couldn’t think it. Him and Mike? Laughable. Utterly laughable. He’d never be young and sophisticated like Mike’s ex. He’d never be as perfectly put together. Would never catch Mike’s eye in any way other than as a stodgy old judge. Putting on the robe aged him twenty years, it seemed. He’d become a geezer in his mid-forties.
And he could never be as proud as Mike. There was maybe ten years’ difference in their ages? But going to college in 1991 versus 2001 made all the difference in the world. Mike had recent history on his side, protest movements and legislation and pride marches,
gay-straight alliances, passionate speeches about equality and affirmation that people actually listened to. Ellen had come out, and found acceptance. Anti-discrimination laws had been passed. Hate crime laws that protected his people actually existed now. He vividly remembered the days when gay men were murdered—and their killers got off—just because they were gay.
Ten years had sped up centuries of progress.
But he’d shuttered the peephole on his closet door and barricaded its gilded frame.
“Come on, Etta Mae.” He called her name, and she popped up, her long ears dragging over the couch cushions, floppy jowls flapping as she shook and shimmied to wake up. She trotted over, her sagging skin swaying back and forth, and wagged her tail as she stretched at his feet. She nipped at his shoes, as if to tell him to hurry up.
“I’m moving, I’m moving. Your daddy is just being maudlin tonight.”
She didn’t care. She flopped to her back and rolled, wriggling as he grabbed her harness and leash. She sprang back up, trotting over so he could slip her harness on and buckle her in.
In moments, they were trotting down the steps of his townhome in Foggy Bottom and meandering down the street. Etta Mae sniffed every crack and crevice, investigating the remnants of each dog that had passed by during the day. It was a slow loop around the block, and she did her business on seven different plots of flowers and at the base of a large maple tree. Leaving messages for her friends, no doubt, one long dog conversation told in piddles and droplets.
“Etta Mae, you have a better social life than I do.”
She shook, rattling her collar and flinging a three-inch-long missile of drool through the air. Tom ducked, and it narrowly missed his shoulder.
“Thanks, Etta Mae. I appreciate your help.”
Her tongue lolled out, and she trotted off, her tail held high, floppy butt sashaying back and forth, strutting down the sidewalk like she had not a care in the world.
His next life, he was definitely coming back as a Basset Hound.
Once or twice through the years, he’d had a longing for more, but a few weeks of perusing his top secret stash of gay porn and nightly dates with his hands usually cured him of that longing. He sexed himself out, or bored himself with the repetitiveness of his porn, the same old, same old that could never replace another warm body sinking into him, spreading out over him, the weight of a man pressing him into the mattress.
The night before, he’d been too depressed, too maudlin, too morose to even consider fooling around with himself. He hadn’t been as uninterested in himself in years.
Friday morning was one of his swim days, and he was up early, feeding Etta Mae her princess-certified breakfast of wet dog food sprinkled with shredded cheese and pieces of tortilla, microwaved until the cheese was just melted and the dog food warm enough to waft through his townhome. Always a delight.
Etta Mae ate and did her business and took up position on the couch, flopping down for her morning nap. He kissed her head and headed out, gym duffel and briefcase over his shoulder and garment bag in one hand.
The DC morning was already warm, practically midday hot with a cloudless sky stretching overhead. He left just early enough to miss the crush of commuter traffic and ducked into the Foggy Bottom Metro station. A transfer at Metro Center, and then he got off at Judicial Station.
The plaza gym at the courthouse complex was exclusively for the judiciary, federal employees, and DC Metro police, and he used the swimming pool there three days a week.
Did Mike ever work out there?
Oh, for Christ’s sake.
He forced himself not to think of Mike, or of anyone, any male body, any male body part. Any fantasy man he’d concocted over the years, any perfect assortment of smiles and laughs and soft eyes gazing at him. He just swam, lap after lap, water rushing by his head, sluicing over his body.
He took too long in the shower, leaning into the hot spray with the water running down the back of his neck. He’d gotten older, somehow. His legs were wiry. His hips were narrow, but not sexily so, not anymore. He just looked thin. His shoulders had always been wide, swimmer’s shoulders that tapered to a V, and his arms nicely toned. But his chest had a smattering of gray hairs poking out, traitors hidden in the sparse strands of brown. He hadn’t bothered sprucing himself up, manscaping as they called it these days, for two decades. What was the point?
If he found someone, he’d have to start paying attention to himself again.
But that wasn’t going to happen.
Putting the thought firmly out of his head, he shut off the shower and toweled off. Got dressed, and managed to dry and fluff his brunet-with-a-little-bit-of-salt hair into the DC sideswept style that was all the rage for mid-forties guys like him. He looked like every other middle-aged man in DC. Maybe a little thinner. He’d never let himself get overweight. But he was boring. As boring as… well, a judge.
There was a coffee shop in the lobby, a requirement for all federal buildings to keep the wheels of bureaucracy turning. Every morning, he bought his first cup there, one of his only indulgences. A sugary, whipped cream monstrosity, ridiculous, but delicious.
“And… a medium drip, heavy on the cream, please.” Tom passed over a ten with a weak smile to the barista.
What was he doing? Buying Mike’s coffee? Mike got his own coffee every morning just fine. This was stupid. He was stupid.
Still, he took both cups—his sugar meltdown, Mike’s refined brew—and headed for the Annex.
Maybe he’d run into Mike on the stairs, and he could pass it off as a mistake, an oops of the baristas. If Mike never saw his own order, maybe that would fly.
Yeah, right.
No Mike on the stairs. He could dump the coffee in the trash, forget his lapse in good judgment. He could banish all evidence of his foolishness.
He badged his way into the private corridor, the long bright hallway that led to his chambers. Past the line of courtrooms, four in a row, and the chambers of his fellow judges on the fourth floor, Judge Tonya King and Judge Dana Juarez. Past the smaller offices for the law clerks and their secretaries.
And, at the end of the hall, Mike’s tiny office.
Mike’s door was open. He was early.
Well, go figure, after yesterday. Mike had been mortified. His ex sounded like a nightmare. Good riddance.
He couldn’t think like that.
Tom closed his eyes, hovering in front of his own office door. He could still ditch the coffee.
“Hey, Judge Brewer!”
Uh-oh. Mike’s cheery voice slammed into him, and footsteps paraded down the hall. “Good morning,” Mike called. “Happy Friday.”
“Morning.” Tom opened his eyes and turned to Mike.
Mike was a devastatingly handsome man. He hit all of Tom’s buttons, poked at every one of his deeply buried yearnings. He wanted to rake his fingers through Mike’s hair, lying like waves of perfect, sunbaked sand that ran for miles. He’d look gorgeous in a tiny bathing suit, stretched out on a towel on some empty beach, laughing and smiling as the sun brought little drops of sweat to his skin, beading into rivulets he’d lick off. Mike would taste like the sea, like happiness and sunshine and freedom. Like the joy the perfect blue of his eyes promised.
Mike had a folder in his hands, and he flipped through the pages, reading off names and sentences for minor drug charges and weapons possessions. Tom’s brain caught up seconds too late. “…looks like Lincoln’s gang, for the most part, isn’t knocking on the doors of the big leagues. Lincoln must be a connector between his people and the bigger fish. His guys are just the leg breakers.”
Tom blinked. “Too bad we couldn’t get him to flip.”
“You tried your best.” Mike reached for Tom’s keys, dangling off his pinkie as he clutched his sugary coffee. “Let me get your door, Your Honor.”
“Thanks.” He could stare while Mike’s back was turned. No one would know. He could stare at Mike’s shoulders, his back, the muscles moving beneath his w
hite button-down. Mike had ditched his suit jacket in his office and he wore his shoulder holster, his weapon clipped beneath his armpit. His shoulder blades rolled beneath the straps, his back muscles flexed—
Mike stepped back and held open the door. “Here you go.”
Tom’s gaze snapped up. He fixed a smile to his face, a stretch of his lips he hoped wasn’t too ridiculous, and headed into his office.
“Double coffee today?” Mike hung back in the doorway.
“Actually…” Here goes nothing. “This is for you.”
Mike’s jaw dropped.
“Just in case. I need my inspector fully caffeinated.”
Slowly, Mike smiled and took the offered cup. He shook his head, chuckling to himself, and a flush darkened his neck. “You’re too kind about what happened, Judge Brewer.”
“I’ve got a reputation as the oddball of the court to uphold.”
“Chief Judge Fink would have brought me up on contempt of court charges.”
“He probably would.” Tom grinned. “But I have always been more lenient with first-time offenders.”
Mike was quiet. He stared at his coffee, spinning the paper cup in his hand. “I’m beginning to understand why that ends up working so well for you.” His eyes lifted, met Tom’s gaze.
Tom’s grin grew, turning into a smile. “‘I have always found that mercy bears richer fruits than strict justice.’”
Mike’s head tipped, cocked to one side. He frowned, as if searching his memories. “Abraham Lincoln?”
Tom nodded.
“Thank you for the coffee, Judge Brewer.” Mike spoke softly and saluted him with the cup before he backed out of the office. He kept smiling the whole time, and Tom’s stomach fluttered as he watched him go.
There wasn’t a chance in hell that he and Mike could ever be together, no matter how attracted he was to the man. Mike’s tastes didn’t run to boring mid-forty-year-olds, as evidenced by exhibit number one, the photo of his ex. But, maybe there was a chance at a friendship. God knew he could use a friend. His life was empty, purposely empty, achingly empty.