He is Mine

by Mel Gough

  So, this is what Laila wants. A Tell All slant to the interview. All right, Viv thinks. You want juicy marriage details? You got it!

  “Yeah,” she says, letting her face relax into a dreamy expression, staring into the distance. “We had a really romantic, intimate anniversary. Candlelight, flowers, champagne. Victor got this famous chef to cook for us, the guy with the TV show…”

  “So, when are you starting a family?” Laila interrupts her.

  “I can’t remember his name…” Viv is still in fairytale mode and it takes a moment before it dawns on her what the journalist just asked. Her insides freeze. “What?!”

  “A family,” Laila prompts, her smile wide. To Viv, she looks like the scary clown in the movie Victor likes so much. Laila leans forward in her seat and lowers her voice. “Your fans can’t wait until you have a baby!”

  Before Viv can decide how to respond to this unexpected turn the interview has taken, the penthouse door opens and in strides Victor.

  “Darling!” Viv exclaims as surprise and relief flood her. She leaps to her feet. “You made it!” She hurries over to her husband and flings her arms around him.

  If he’s taken aback by the enthusiastic greeting, Victor hides it well. He returns her embrace and kisses her on the mouth, right there in front of Laila and Stef—and Marcel and Mimi, who have chosen this moment to come out of the bedroom. Usually, Viv would pull away and chastise Victor for ruining her makeup. Today, she’s grateful for the distraction he brought, and for the audience.

  “Hey, babe,” he says when he breaks the kiss, then gives Laila and everyone else a radiant smile. When he wants to, Victor knows how to be charming. Maybe he’s picked up on the strained atmosphere. “Hi, Laila,” he says, and walks over to her, holding Viv by the hand. “My meeting finished early, and I thought you might have a few questions for me as well.”

  “Great idea,” Laila says, but an annoyed glance in Viv’s direction betrays her. The reporter knows she’s lost her moment. She won’t bring up pregnancy again.

  As Viv settles down next to Victor on the sofa, she’s happy for him to take the lead. Her head still reels, and she barely pays attention to the questions Laila asks Victor.

  Why did Laila bring up babies at all? It’s not Laila’s style, to catch out her interview subjects like this. Does she know something, are there rumors that Viv isn’t aware of? The thought makes her angry. She’s tried so hard to control that particular narrative. When she and Victor started dating she got asked about their plans for children all the time. She always had the same answer. “One thing at a time. Right now, I’m concentrating on my career and a new relationship.” Finally, the questions stopped.

  Viv guesses she should’ve known the topic would come back up once the honeymoon period was over. The problem is, now she doesn’t have any good excuses anymore.

  Sure, her work is still important. But she’ll have a career now, whatever else she does. Victor will make sure of it. He’ll cast her in his movies whenever she wants him to. Empress Cassilda was written with her in mind. And if she gets bored of working with her husband he has promised he’ll find her work with any of the people he knows in the industry.

  The truth behind the baby question is something Viv definitely doesn’t want to share with the press, or anyone else for that matter. Not now, and not ever if she has her way.

  Viv is more than ready for a baby, and has been for some time. She desperately wants a little girl, someone who will love her unconditionally. The main reason for marrying Victor, apart from the amazing effect it had on her career, is that she wants a child. It’s the one thing in her perfect life plan that’s missing—and the one thing she can’t have.

  She fucked up with this. She picked the one guy who can give her fame and power and a life full of luxury, but who can’t fulfil her deepest desire. The scoop, for which Laila would give her right foot, is that Victor is sterile. They found out a few months after they got married, when Viv had endured several cycles of hope and despair. He got tested first, on Viv’s urging, and they had the result in days. Viv doesn’t understand the doctor jargon, but she could work out from the letter that, with Victor’s sperm, she would never be able to get pregnant.

  “I had no idea you wanted kids that bad,” he’d said to her as she sat in their living room, frozen, with the piece of paper bearing the test result in her hand. “I’m not bothered either way.” He’d shrugged and looked at her helplessly. “But had I known you care so much, I would’ve had it checked sooner.”

  It’d never occurred to Viv that a test might be necessary. Victor is a healthy man in his best years. He doesn’t smoke, he gets drunk only occasionally, and his one real vice is hard work.

  They haven’t talked about it since that night. But Viv wishes they could. At first, she was too numb to bring it up, and Victor seemed to have put it out of his mind. Viv isn’t sure why she’s unable to address the issue now and tell him what the thought of never getting to be a mother does to her.

  Usually Viv isn’t shy about asking for what she wants. She learned how to fight her own corner at her mother’s knee. Over time, the whole sorry tale has taken on gigantic proportions in her mind. Outwardly, she never lets it show, of course. And she tries to suppress it, pile work and clothes and interesting adventures onto each other. But every so often, the pain bubbles to the surface, as it did today, and the sense of shame and of being a failure consumes her.

  If Victor notices anything, he doesn’t let on. They take their leave after fifteen minutes of Laila asking him lackluster questions. As they’re about to get into the elevator Victor stops. “Hey, we didn’t have them take any pictures of us together!”

  Viv needs a moment to understand what he’s talking about. “Oh,” she says, motioning to Stef to press the button for the lobby. “Doesn’t matter. They got enough of me.” She pulls him into the elevator.

  He looks at her with his eyebrow raised, and Viv thinks he might ask her what’s up. But then he just shrugs. Viv is glad not to be questioned.

  How do you admit that you feel worthless and incomplete when you’ve got the perfect life.

  6

  Brad stands in front of his closet, frowning. He used to have so many shirts, now there are half a dozen. Nothing on the hangers looks like something one would wear to a club. He casts his mind back, trying to remember when he has last been out dancing. Maybe on his and Aiden’s one-year anniversary? More than four years ago, in any case. He remembers the night at a place in Harlem, a bohemian club of Aiden’s choosing. The evening had ended with him and Aiden fighting. Even then, drama was never far away. But on the question of what he’d been wearing that night Brad draws a blank. Probably nothing that’s still in his closet now.

  There might be clothes stored in the still unfinished attic. But he can’t go looking now; he’s already running late. Brad rubs his face. Get on with it, he thinks. All you’re doing is dragging out the inevitable. Now that it’s time, he would much prefer to stay in. But Eric has badgered him all week at work, and finally Brad couldn’t take it anymore and agreed to go.

  With a sigh, Brad pulls a denim shirt with short sleeves from the closet. He can roll the sleeves up all the way onto the shoulders. He seems to remember that used to be a thing with young gay men a few years ago. Maybe it still is. He puts the shirt on and slides the closet door shut. As he fastens the buttons, he studies himself in the mirrored closet door. Yeah, this will do. The denim looks pretty good over the white dress slacks he picked out. Brad has never worn them before. They’d been Aiden’s idea.

  “Your ass looks awesome in them,” he’d grinned when Brad had tried them on at Macy’s. Then he’d pulled Brad close and nuzzled his neck. “I wanna show you off on the dance floor again.” That shopping trip had been a rare happy outing in their last year together. They’d never gone dancing again; during the last few months of their relationship they’d gone nowhere.

  Surprisingly, it doesn’t bother Brad that Aiden chos
e the pants. Maybe he’s starting to come to terms with it. Maybe three months post-breakup he’s allowed to let life feel normal again sometimes. He inspects his own behind in the mirror. And his ass does look good in white.

  Brad pulls on a pair of dark blue suede leather loafers. He hasn’t worn anything but trainers in his spare time for longer than he cares to think about. For work, it’s always steel-capped black boots. He chooses the NYPD’s uniform issue footwear over the dressy looking black leather shoes most of the plainclothes detectives prefer. Brad likes to have his feet protected, and he likes the solid stride the boots give him. The soles of the loafers feel odd as he walks around the house to collect his wallet and keys, and even stranger as he jogs down the front steps and heads toward the subway. The May evening is pleasant, and Brad can feel his spirits lift in the balmy warm twilight.

  Brad has agreed to go out with his partner Eric and Eric’s friends. It’s the first time he’s going out with anyone since Aiden left. He’s seen Maria, of course, but she’s family so that doesn’t count.

  Eric is twenty-eight and has been Brad’s partner for less than a year. He made detective at twenty-seven, which is just one year older than Brad had been when he’d passed his own exam. Until Eric was assigned as his trainee partner, Brad had known few gay cops at the NYPD and none on the current detective squad. Brad is out at work but doesn’t bring it up if he can help it. Eric has no such qualms, and Brad was aware of his new partner’s sexual orientation by the end of their first joint shift.

  Aiden was indignant when Brad told him about his new partner. “They’re giving him to you because all the old-timers balk at the thought of a gay rookie,” he said. Brad doesn’t care. He’s not indifferent to the discrimination that’s still present in the police force, but he knew right off the bat that he was lucky to get Eric. The young detective is exceptionally smart, and Brad has solved some of his most notable cases since Eric joined the detective bureau.

  And he’s become a friend, too. Something that’s been in short supply in recent years.

  Eric is married to Neal, a lawyer seventeen years his senior. They met at a social event organized by the UChicago alumni network. Neal, who went to Law School there, is a patron. Eric had attended the event at the spur of the moment while visiting family three years ago. The fact that it’s easier to meet and fall in love with a New Yorker in Chicago is one of Eric’s favorite jokes. He and Neal will be celebrating their second anniversary soon. It might look like an odd match, but to Brad, their life seems perfect. They own a beautiful townhouse on Staten Island, and they adore each other. And despite the age gap they’re comfortable around each other’s friends. Eric has told Brad that Neal even tags along to the clubs with the younger crowd now and then.

  Tonight, though, Eric waits for Brad by the Southeastern Times Square subway exit by himself. As Brad jogs up the stairs Eric’s eyes glide up and down his body.

  “Nice,” he grins. “I see you’re coming out of your self-imposed celibacy.”

  Brad grimaces. “Three months is hardly celibate.”

  “Maybe not for you, old man,” Eric says with a waggle of his pale eyebrows. Brad rolls his eyes.

  “Kids today,” he grumbles, but Eric’s mirth is infectious. “Speaking of which…no Neal tonight?”

  Eric shakes his head, unperturbed. “He wanted to stay in,” he says over his shoulder as he leads the way down the crowded sidewalk. “He’s been looking forward to a night alone in forever.” Brad raises an eyebrow, and Eric laughs. “No, he’s not playing sugar daddy to some rent boy,” he jokes. “When I left he was on his second glass of red and about twenty pages into Gone with the Wind. I’m not even joking. Though I bet he’ll find time for a nice bath and a wank, too.”

  “Thanks for oversharing,” Brad says.

  “Don’t mention it,” Eric says, grinning down at him. Brad grins back. He has to tilt his head way back to see Eric’s face this close. The young detective is tall enough to have made the NBA. After playing basketball all through college, he did in fact try out for the Bulls but found that the NYPD’s fast track offered a more interesting challenge for his impressive intellect.

  “So, why’re we going to the Ritz Lounge, of all places?” Brad asks. The trendy gay bar in Hell’s Kitchen wouldn’t have been his choice, especially not on a Friday night. But he’s the first to admit that he doesn’t have a go-to place anymore. He’s been out of the game for too long. Now that he’s made it this far, though, Brad finds that he’s happy to be going out. The walls started to close in a little at home recently. Brad likes his own company well enough, but lately, he’s missed having someone to talk to in the evenings.

  “It’s my buddy Jake’s twenty-fifth,” Eric says. He nudges Brad’s shoulder. “We gotta hook you up tonight. You’re definitely sugar daddy material.”

  Brad grunts and hides his hands deep in his pockets. He’s glad to be out of the house, but whether he’s quite ready to jump back into the game remains to be seen.

  They arrive at the club a block away from Times Square to find Jake and his friends holding them a place in the line. The half dozen men are all in their mid-twenties, and their good-natured teasing is infectious. Within minutes, Brad laughs along to their jokes, and Eric looks very pleased with himself.

  Inside, they make their way to the bar. “First one’s on me!” Jake’s boyfriend, Saeed, calls to loud cheers from the others. They hang around for a few minutes, rocking on the balls of their feet to the beat and sipping their drinks. But soon a song comes on that Jake finds irresistible, and he pulls Saeed onto the dance floor. Their friends soon follow, and only Brad and Eric stay behind.

  “You don’t have to chaperone me, bud,” Brad shouts over the music at Eric, who watches his friends. “If you’d wanted babysitting duty you could’ve stayed at home. We old farts can take care of ourselves for one night.”

  “If you’re sure…,” Eric says.

  “Totally sure!” Brad gives his partner a shove toward the dance floor. “Go on!”

  Eric grins and hurries to join his friends, who greet him with cheers and suggestive moves. Soon, they’re out of sight, swallowed by the mass of bodies gyrating to the music.

  Still holding his first beer, Brad wanders the outskirts of the dance floor. He watches the beautiful bodies, many shirtless, some wearing little more than tiny Speedos. This is good. It’s like therapy to see these guys enjoying themselves. Brad soaks up the music, observing the patrons. Tension that he hadn’t even noticed drains from his body. He can feel other men’s eyes on him, which sends a not unpleasant tingle down his spine.

  One pair of eyes continues to linger, but Brad takes his time before he acknowledges the attention. When he turns toward the bar, making eye contact with a man who leans against the gleaming wood, he is pleasantly surprised by what he sees. The young man cruising him is handsome, with a shock of red hair and an athletic body.

  With Aiden, sex had become first routine, then a chore, then it had as good as stopped. Being looked at with desire again, and not feeling guilty about it, is a sensation Brad has almost forgotten.

  While he’d still been with Aiden, several men had made passes at him. He had been tempted to just give in to one of those invitations, and, in the arms of a stranger, forget the burden of Aiden’s illness for a few hours. He never had succumbed, and now he’s glad. The guilt about how it all ended has been bad enough.

  Maybe it’s the remnants of his vaguely Catholic upbringing, or maybe it’s the disgust his usually so conscientious mind has heaped on him these last three months that has had him tossing and turning at night. He was so sure that locking himself away, and doing penance for his sins, was the right thing to do. But right now, in a way he hasn’t in a long time, Brad wants to live, and not wallow in the past.

  The young man whose eye Brad has caught has a handsome, smooth face. He’s indeed very young. Not quite a college kid, but close. He raises an eyebrow, and Brad gives him a nod.

  No
further encouragement is needed. The guy pushes himself away from the bar and saunters over. As he comes closer, Brad can see that his face, neck, and arms are covered in a fine, bronze spray of freckles. He has a pleasant, open expression, and his pale blue eyes sparkle. Brad has to tilt his head as he stops before him. He’s got a good three inches on Brad’s five foot eight.

  The guy leans down so he can talk close to Brad’s ear over the music. “I’m David,” he says, and then without waiting for a reply, “You the dinner-and-movie kinda guy?”

  “Not really.” The words are out of Brad’s mouth before he knows they’re coming. David straightens up, grinning. Brad feels himself blush, but he returns the grin. “I’m Brad, by the way.”

  “We going then?”

  And that’s that. As they make for the exit, Brad scans the dance floor and catches Eric’s eye. His partner gives Brad a thumbs-up.

  David steps outside first and holds the door for Brad. “Your place?” he asks.

  “If you want,” Brad replies. “It’s all the way out in Brooklyn, though.”

  David shrugs. “Beats Woodbridge Hall.” When Brad looks confused, he adds, “I share a dorm room with a classmate. Columbia.”

  So Brad was on the money. The guy’s a college kid. “Brooklyn it is, then.” He’s not sure how he feels about this, but leads the way to the subway nevertheless. He lets the silence stretch while the age thing gnaws on him. When they get onto the platform he can’t take it any longer. “So, what kind of a cradle robber you turning me into?”

  David chuckles. “Calm down, gramps. I’m a grad student, nearly finished, too. I’m twenty-four.”

  “What do you study?” Brad asks, reassured.

  “Physics,” David says, his pride evident.

  “Gorgeous and a Brainiac. My lucky day,” Brad says.

  David laughs. “Brains aren’t a turn-off, are they?” He gives Brad a long, assessing look. Brad’s pants grow tight.