The Friends We Keep(34)

“I’m Topher. I guess you must live in the hood?”

“Next block. I’m pretty sure you do too because I’ve seen you around before.”

“One block east.”

“It’s nice to meet you. How do you feel about inviting neighbors over for breakfast?”

“You’re forward,” Topher said, acting surprised.

“You can’t ever be forward with neighbors. I’m just being neighborly. Also, I’m a very good cook. I could help make the job easier. I’ll bring my Sunday papers.”

“You’re sure you’re not a serial killer who picks up young men by pretending to live in their neighborhood?”

“This is who I am,” said Larry, bringing a business card out of his pocket and handing it to Topher, whose face lit up as he read it.

“You own the Muscleman gym? I love that place. I wish I could afford the membership.”

“Let’s talk about special rates over breakfast,” Larry said with a grin, taking Topher’s cart and insisting on paying for all the food, before they walked side by side back to Topher’s apartment.



* * *



? ? ?

I never do this,” said Topher as they sat down to perfect omelets made by Larry, who had also made himself right at home, opening all the kitchen cabinets to find the pans, whisks, and spoons.

“You never invite strange men back to your apartment? Come on. Do you think I was born yesterday?”

“I don’t invite them back for breakfast. Or is this lunch?” Topher looked at his watch. “I guess it’s pretty much dinner. The early bird special.”

“I don’t usually get invited to cook in strange men’s apartments, so we’re equal.”

“You invited yourself,” said Topher, who was astonished at how easy it was to be around Larry. He was twenty-nine, six years older than Topher, a Penn graduate who spent his first few years working in finance, until he made enough money to buy a failing gym, which he then turned into Muscleman, the hottest gym in the village.

“I did. I’ve seen you around and I wanted to meet you, and what better way to get to know someone than over a meal. Eat your spinach.” He nodded over at Topher’s plate, and Topher did as he was told.

“So . . . no boyfriend?” Topher asked, wondering why someone as clever, cute, and accessible as Larry might be in a position to come to his apartment on a Sunday afternoon, seemingly with no other plans or commitments.

“He died,” Larry said simply. “It’s okay. It was two years ago. I’m trying to get on with life, but no one serious since then, no.”

Topher presumed, as was always presumed when someone gay died before their time, that it was AIDS, but he didn’t want to ask. Not that it would change his view of Larry; half his friends were positive. It had become a fact of life that was not shocking to Topher and his friends; it just was.

“You?” Larry asked.

“Footloose and fancy-free,” said Topher. “And happy that way,” he added, just in case Larry had the wrong idea.

After lunch, they washed up together, idly chitchatting in the kitchen, all the while Topher realizing he was finding Larry more and more attractive.

“Newspaper time.” Larry put coffee on as if he belonged there, then went to the living room, sinking into the sofa, feet on the coffee table as he unfolded the Sunday Times. “I’m really sorry,” he said to Topher. “You’re welcome to fight me for it, but I always start with Style.”

“I’ll make do with Arts,” said Topher. “Just this once.” He hesitated, not knowing where to sit, until Larry patted the sofa next to him. Topher sat down, aware that their legs were touching, but Larry didn’t turn and kiss him, or move a hand to his crotch as Topher thought he might.

Instead, Larry just sat there, completely comfortable, as he immersed himself in the paper. Topher read his own section of the paper, inching his upper body slowly toward Larry’s, until soon, he was leaning on him. He looked over and met Larry’s eyes. Larry smiled at him, then went back to the paper, and Topher felt his whole body relax as he leaned into this newfound friend with a contented sigh.





seventeen


- 1992 -



Sometimes, when Topher showed up for an audition, everything was wrong. He couldn’t always put his finger on it, but it would start the minute he rolled out of bed. He felt uptight, out of touch with himself, and nothing went his way.

And then there were other days, like this, when he woke up feeling great, full of energy, excited about life, knowing that he would charm everyone he met that day, that life would go his way.

What Comes Around was one of the most successful soap operas of the decade, and Topher was in the lobby of a small television studio in Midtown, right on time, waiting to be called in to audition.

There were three other men dotted around, all of them looking over the same script, all of them there for the same audition, all of them good-looking men, roughly the same age. The part was for Rip Wallington, the long-lost son of the wealthy patriarch of the Wallington clan, a boy who had been banished to England but who was returning to steal his father’s secret mistress and create general havoc on the show.

One of the men sitting there gave Topher a smile. He looked familiar, and Topher wandered over.