A Madness Most Discreet

by Laura Lascarso

  I went to him and circled my arms around his waist, then kissed his neck and shoulder. “How could you say that? You’re the best thing to ever happen to me. I want to introduce you to my family.”

  His shoulders were stiff. He didn’t budge.

  “Why can’t this be enough?” he asked.

  I loved what we had, and if this was truly all he could give, I’d learn to accept it, but as with all things Arden, I was greedy. The things I wanted, I thought they were easy enough for him to give. As to his risk, I didn’t really consider it at all.

  “I want more,” I said simply. I wanted all of him, all the time. I wanted to tell the world he was mine, even if it was only partly true. Claim him in front of my friends and family and celebrate him in all his glory.

  “I’m proud of you. And I’m proud to be with you,” I said. He shook his head, and I turned him around gently. Eventually, his mouth softened, his lips parted, and he welcomed me inside.

  “I’d like to invite you, Arden Evans, to accompany me to my book launch, where I will happily introduce you as my boyfriend and lover. And if anyone has anything to say about it, fuck them.”

  Arden’s shoulders relaxed and he leaned into me, resting his chin on my shoulder and allowing me to wrap my arms around him. “I appreciate your fuck-all attitude, but I still think you’re being stupid.”

  “Then let me be stupid. This isn’t some fling for me. I want you in my life forever. I want our happy ending.”

  He sighed in resignation. “You and your words.”

  It was neither an acquiescence nor a refusal, as was his way.

  14

  the slight

  “Arden, you look fine,” I assured him as I had a half-dozen times already. He’d gone back and forth between suits and was now waffling on whether or not to wear a tie. “It’s really not that formal, babe. Look, I’m not wearing a tie.”

  “You’re the talent,” Arden said, unbuttoning his shirt only to button it up again.

  “You look lovely.” I placed myself between him and the mirror, his arch nemesis. I unfastened the top button of his freshly ironed shirt and leaned in to brush my lips against his clavicle. “If you get any more handsome, no one will pay any attention to me. Are you trying to upstage me?”

  He scowled. “I could never pull off literary darling.”

  “Of course, you could. You can do anything you put your mind to, even graduate college.”

  “Not this again,” he grumbled.

  “You wouldn’t have to go back full-time. Just a class here and there.” I thought I was demonstrating my faith in Arden’s abilities where his own confidence sometimes faltered. I didn’t realize how overbearing I was being, how like my father.

  “I really think this book is going to hit number one,” Arden said, distracting me from my lecture. He’d finished reading Thicker Than Water a couple of weeks ago and, as the ultimate compliment to the author, had begun rereading the entire series.

  “We’ll see.” I didn’t want to make any predictions in case they fell short. It was hard to gauge readers’ reactions to any of my books, though I was able to determine that they really didn’t like cliffhangers. At least, not when the next one in the series hadn’t yet been published.

  Arden reached over to fiddle with my hair. “Are you nervous?”

  “A little. I’m far less interesting in person than I am on the page.”

  “You write about murder, so that’s probably a good thing,” he said with a smile, then glanced at his phone. “Our driver will be here soon. Kiss me.”

  With pleasure. He tasted like mint toothpaste. Earlier today he’d tasted like honeydew from the frozen melon balls he was eating on the fire escape, wearing only his skimpy gym shorts because of the heat. He’d been reading one of my books while I worked. Or tried to, since Arden had a way of distracting me. At one point he’d looked up to find me watching him and exclaimed, “Isn’t the weather just gorgeous today?” It had been hot and humid with only a hint of breeze, but it was the type of climate Arden preferred, and so I’d said, “Yes, it is a beautiful day.”

  Shortly thereafter, one of the construction workers had aimed a wolf whistle in our direction, so Arden gave them a show by sitting on my lap and kissing me until I forgot myself completely. His skin was smooth as buttermilk, his mouth both cold and sweet.

  “Daydreaming, Michael?” he asked when he pulled away. My face flushed. He always knew when he’d caught me in a steamy fantasy.

  “Thinking about earlier today,” I admitted.

  “In the bedroom?”

  “No, on the fire escape.”

  “Ah,” he said with a wicked smile. “Something for your diary?”

  “You’ve given me a lot of material.” I should write a romance and dedicate it to him.

  Arden rubbed against me, not so subtly, and said, “We’d better go now or we’re going to be late.”

  I vocalized my thwarted desires to no avail. On our way out the door, I asked him if he had our cigarettes, and he patted his coat pocket. “Just in case.”

  The launch was being held in the penthouse of a building near my dad’s office, one of their regular event spaces, this one a little larger than the last because they were predicting a bigger turnout. I knew from past attendance that its interior was extremely white and minimalistic, decorated with large, oddly shaped sculptures bearing Norwegian names.

  We entered into the lobby, where I was grateful to be out of the stifling late afternoon heat. I made a move toward the elevators, and Arden told me he’d meet me upstairs.

  “It’s ten floors,” I said, a fact already known to him.

  “I don’t mind.” He kissed my cheek. “I’ll race you.”

  I considered going with him, but we were, in fact, running late, and I didn’t think it fashionable to keep guests waiting at a party in my own honor, so I boarded the elevator and resolved to rejoin him upstairs.

  Upon my arrival, I was immediately greeted by Bitzy who’d texted me no less than five times already to inquire about my whereabouts. She’d already staked out the room and had a lineup of introductions ready. It was a comfort to have Bitzy by my side. She would take care of any awkward silences and my habit of drifting off midsentence. Space cadet, my father used to call me.

  Bitzy introduced me to a New York Times book reviewer who said their staff were scouting some easy beach reads to review for their upcoming summer editions. I assured him my work was not too mentally taxing, though it might be more rewarding if he were to read the other installments before reviewing the last. Bitzy said she’d have the publisher send a complete set to his office.

  “Who says you don’t know how to market yourself?” she said.

  We then chatted for a few minutes with a librarian at the New York Public Library who’d made Cold Lake Chronicles part of their summer reading series. Unlike the reviewer we’d spoken to, she seemed sincerely excited for my newest release and wanted to know if I might make an appearance at their book club meeting. I said I’d be delighted and gave the woman my card.

  By this time, Bitzy had secured me a glass of wine and flagged down a caterer to supply us with tiny toasts topped with an olive tapenade and caviar and creamed chive tartlets. I scouted the room for Arden and caught sight of his glossy brown head and the broad back of the peacock blue suit he’d stressed over. He was speaking to a man I didn’t recognize. I’d intended to excuse myself from present company and collect him when Bitzy pointed out my editor. I had to thank her for the countless hours she’d spent sharpening my prose, not only on my most recent release, but also the two books that came before it.

  And, so it went for a while. Every time I tried to extract myself from conversation, there was someone else to whom I must attend. My father joined me at one point, and I searched the room again for my lover. He was with Franco now, too far away to call for him, so I said to my father, “Come with me. There’s someone I want you to meet.”

  “Could it be the ma
n who left his aftershave in my cabin?” my father asked.

  “Possibly.” I signaled to Arden. A flash of uncertainty crossed his face as he broke away from Franco to join us. Bitzy greeted him with a kiss on the cheek. My father offered him his signature firm handshake.

  “Dad, this is Arden Evans, my boyfriend.”

  Boyfriend sounded so juvenile. I really didn’t care for it. Husband or partner—even lover—sounded far more appropriate.

  My father nodded. He knew something of my relationships in the past, though it seemed he more often became acquainted with my lovers on the tail-end, just before they went belly-up.

  “Are you the one my son is helping write a memoir?” my father asked.

  “Yes, sir,” Arden said. His normal ebullience was severely dimmed.

  “You must have led an interesting life, to have enough material to fill a whole book.”

  Arden glanced toward me, trying to glean some indication as to my father’s intent. “Perhaps not so interesting.”

  “What’s that?” My dad was losing his hearing, and rather than just wear hearing aids, he randomly shouted at people to speak up.

  “It’s really not that interesting. Just something my…” Arden paused self-consciously. “Something my therapist suggested.”

  “Your therapist?” my father boomed. “Well, I hope you’re not taking up too much of my son’s time. There’s a reason so many successful writers are recluses. They need their creative space in order to be productive.”

  “I can manage my time just fine on my own,” I interjected.

  My dad gave me a dubious look. “You told Black Rook you’d have an outline to them months ago. How’s that coming along?”

  I swallowed tightly. “Why don’t we save the business talk for later?”

  My father’s features settled into what I considered his resting disapproval face. He turned to Arden again. “It’s nothing personal, young man. Only that my son has a habit of getting distracted by shiny things when he really ought to be buckling down.”

  Arden’s expression shuttered, and he didn’t offer a response. Like most instances when dealing with my father’s bluster, I didn’t know how to recover or what to say. Luckily, Bitzy took over then and directed my father by arm to an associate of his, not before shooting me an apologetic look over her shoulder.

  “My father,” I said to Arden.

  “Could have been worse,” he said, though I didn’t think he meant it.

  “How about that cigarette?”

  We made our way to the balcony, collecting Franco and Liam along the way. Outside, their debate picked up again. Something about the benefits of prenuptial agreements.

  “How are you doing?” I asked Arden once we’d both taken our first pulls of our shared cigarette.

  “I’m fine,” he assured me with forced cheer. “This is a great turnout. All of these people coming out to celebrate your work. I think the crowd has doubled since the last time.”

  “Celebrating the end of Nathan Shields at last,” I joked.

  “I don’t think that’s it,” he said warmly.

  My tone softened. “No, I don’t think so either.”

  “Thank you for inviting me,” he said. “I wanted to support you.”

  “I’m glad you came. You look very handsome.”

  “Shiny,” he said wryly.

  “My father is an idiot.”

  Arden looked past me at the glittering spectacle indoors. “No, I don’t think he is.”

  We passed the cigarette between us, but even the pleasant rush of nicotine couldn’t override my irritation at my father’s behavior. Just when I thought we’d reoriented ourselves, his brash bellow interrupted the comfortable silence.

  “Michael, what are you doing out here with your friends? You should be networking while you have the opportunity.”

  “Just a minute,” I told him.

  “I thought you quit smoking.” I passed the cigarette back to Arden hastily while my father continued, “Nasty habit. I hope you’re not starting up again. With all of the city ordinances, smokers are practically lepers these days.”

  My father then took the opportunity to greet Franco and Liam, whom he knew through our long-term association. He asked Franco about his work, and Franco dazzled him with all of his recent accomplishments. When we were in college, my father considered Franco a “prissy, foreign fop,” which was probably only one degree away from calling him a faggot. (Both f-words got retired when I came out to my father my sophomore year.) But when Franco started working on Wall Street, my father’s tune changed overnight. The two of them had a lot in common, both being businessmen who were motivated by the bottom line. My dad, when given the opportunity, consulted Franco on the market as though he were a tealeaf reader.

  Liam, on the other hand, had never held my father’s attention. “Weird, pale kid” was my father’s assessment, though he did respect the Bickel family name and was polite in his company.

  “Franco’s doing well for himself,” my father said to me. “Probably won’t have to work much longer before he can retire.” He squinted past Arden and I to stare at the sun setting behind the high-rises, spilling its light over the concrete and making it look almost pretty. “I should have been a wealth manager. Shame things didn’t work out between you two.”

  “Not really,” I said. Was he being rude on purpose? “Because I have Arden, and money isn’t everything.”

  My father frowned like he’d stepped in dog shit. “Money is most things, Michael. Franco understands that. So does your friend, Liam. You could learn something from them.”

  I took a deep breath, and even though I knew I shouldn’t engage him, I said, “What about art?”

  “Art alone doesn’t pay the bills. Not without monetizing it.”

  “Not all art needs to be monetized,” Arden said, as though it had killed him to utter it aloud.

  My father shot him a scornful look. He’d been drinking, and though he wasn’t a mean drunk, alcohol didn’t make him any easier to bear. “With that kind of mindset, you’ll be homeless within the week,” he thundered, not realizing his voice had gotten loud again. “My son is very talented but severely lacking in business acumen. Which is why he must rely on people like myself and Franco. Without our direction, he wouldn’t be able to afford his nice apartment or that suit your wearing.”

  “I don’t buy Arden’s clothing,” I said, incensed at his insinuation. He gave Arden a long, scrolling look. I didn’t like what it portended. “Arden is a model. A very sought-after one,” I added, though it left a bitter taste in my mouth, that I had to defend him at all.

  “A model, huh?” my father asked, doing that repetition thing he did whenever he didn’t buy something.

  “Let’s go inside,” I said to him, too loud for my own ears.

  “Go on without me. I’ll just hang out here with the boys.”

  “Arden?” I asked. If my father wouldn’t join me, I hoped that he would.

  “It’s a beautiful evening, Michael. I’m going to enjoy the fresh air a little while longer.”

  I shot Franco a look that said to watch over the two of them and rejoined the gaggle inside. I encountered admirer and critic in equal turn and tried to be gracious with both. I shot a couple of glances out to the balcony where my father seemed to be lecturing to a reluctant audience. Franco looked perplexed, Liam bored, and Arden withdrawn. What could he possibly have to say to them?

  My reading came next, and I got through it thanks to a mixture of alcohol and terror-fueled adrenaline. Then I signed an obscene number of books. This novel might open on the Best Seller’s list. If I wasn’t in such a flustered state, I’d have been flattered. I was flattered, just finding it hard to concentrate.

  It was late by the time the scheduled events had concluded. Franco and Liam had left shortly after my reading. Arden was sitting nearby, nursing a glass of water and staring at one of those weird sculptures with a contemplative look. My father and Bitzy we
re making their final rounds.

  My stomach was still in knots, and I realized, in retrospect, that perhaps this type of event wasn’t ideal for introducing Arden to my father.

  On his way out, my father stopped by once more to say goodbye. “Here’s to hitting number one,” he said and drained his wineglass, then turned to Bitzy. “I’d call our friends at Powell’s for a little extra boost.”

  Bitzy nodded, looking exhausted by the night as well. She gave me a farewell kiss on the cheek and told me she’d get back to me about lunch with the television people. My father then insisted he join the meeting as well, this being Bitzy’s first ancillary rights negotiation.

  “Let’s hope we can keep this thing going,” he said in parting. And then, with a nod to Arden, “Andrew.”

  “It’s Arden,” I corrected.

  “What’s that?” my father shouted, even though I was nearly positive he heard me.

  “His name is Arden.”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “Goodnight, Dad.”

  “Remember, Michael, you need to focus on your writing. No distractions.”

  His eyes passed over Arden again, and then he was striding toward the elevators.

  “Jesus Christ,” I said to no one in particular. Arden gave a wan smile, entirely dispirited. I wanted to apologize, but that also meant acknowledging just how terrible it had gone. I didn’t want to make things worse.

  Arden was quiet on our way home, and other than telling me that he’d enjoyed my reading, didn’t say much at all.

  “How do you think it went? Meeting my father, I mean?”

  “I don’t think he likes me.”

  I dragged his hand to my lap and squeezed. “He doesn’t like any of my friends.”

  “He seems to like Franco. And Bitzy.”

  “My father hated Franco when he first met him. He only started to like him after we’d broken up. And Bitzy is a special case, like the daughter he never had.”

  Arden frowned, opened his mouth, and closed it.