One Last Lie (6 page)

Philip placed his drink on the countertop and ran down the hall into Max’s bedroom. The doorbell rang.

“Holy shit, Maxi, I think you’re right!” He found Max on his hands and knees inside the humongous walk-in closet. “This guy could definitely be the one!”

“I could’ve sworn to holy Jesus I put it in here and now I can’t find it.” Max said, rummaging through cartons and throwing shoes across the closet.

Philip bent down, grabbed Max by the hand, and pulled him up. “Don’t worry about that, Max! You’ve already gotten me my present and he’s at the door.”

“What are you talking about?” Max asked, slapping his hands against his trousers.

“Luc! He’s at the door.” The doorbell rang. Philip pulled Max harder, almost making the both of them fall onto the bedroom floor. “Hurry up. C’mon!”

“Shhhh… calm down, Philip.” Max tried to compose himself by sliding his hands through his gelled hair and smoothing down his eyebrows. “I know. He’s very hot. But he’s got nothing on you.”

Together they walked down the hallway and into the marble-floored entryway. The sound of their heels on the tile, clacking in unison, made Philip smile. They were both anxious, each for their own reasons, and it gave Philip a feeling of warmth to realize how much Max cared about him. Max turned to Philip, straightened his shirt collar, stood on his tiptoes, and gently kissed Philip’s cheek.

“Remember, you’re the better part of this deal. And it’s your birthday. So even though these French hotties always think they have the upper hand, be sure to listen to your heart.”

Max turned the doorknob and pulled. Philip could feel his heart pumping, hard and steady, on the verge of jumping out of his chest.

When the door opened, Max let out nervous laugh.

“Oh, Jonathan!” he breathed, sounding to Philip like a sigh of relief. “It’s you.” Max turned to Philip. “It’s not
him,
Philip,
it’s Jonathan.”

“Jonathan who?” Philip asked softly, extending his hand.

“Beckett,” Jonathan half-whispered, taking off his sunglasses. He handed Max a bottle of wine and hugged him, not taking his eyes off Philip. He then reached out his hand to accept Philip’s. “And you must be Philip.”

When their hands touched, Philip was captivated by the softness of his skin and the firmness of a grip that sent a tingle through his body. He clung to Jonathan’s hand with an intuitive urge to never let go.

Max cleared his throat and pulled their hands apart.

“Philip, this is Jonathan. I told you he was coming, didn’t I?” He led them both into the kitchen and placed the wine bottle on the cooktop. “He just moved to Westport from Manhattan. He’s a friend of a friend of a friend of my mother’s who asked if I could introduce him to, well, you know, people ‘like us.’”

Philip picked up his Margarita and took a big swallow. “Would you like a drink?” he asked Jonathan. “Max is the best Margarita maker in town.”

“Sure.” Jonathan nodded.

Max didn’t move. “Even though Jonathan’s over 30, I let him escort me out for dinner one night…”

“Thirty and a half,” said Jonathan.

“
Over
thirty,” Max repeated, “Even so, we went out for dinner. He’s a writer, very intelligent, and I thought he’d fit in well with all of us. I also thought he’d be
my
date…” He shot a side-glance to Philip and winked, “…at least for tonight.”

Philip knew where Max was going and forced himself out of the spell in which he’d been floating since he saw Jonathan walk up the driveway. “I got it Max. Whatever you want.”

Jonathan smiled at him. Philip caught it and smiled back. Max noticed the exchange and again ran his hands through his hair.

“Philip, Luc is coming. Remember Luc?” Max said. “Does the name ring a bell?”

“Who’s Luc?” Jonathan tapped the cap of the blender in an attempt to get Max to mix another Margarita.

“He’s Philip’s date for tonight. I set them up.” Max grabbed the tequila and poured it into the blender. “And it looks like I might’ve made a boo boo. I don’t know
why
I never considered the two of you…”

Philip cupped Max’s neck and pulled him close. “Don’t worry, Maxi. All will be fine.”

The doorbell rang and the three men looked at one another without moving.

Jonathan turned and started to walk down the hallway toward the front door. “I’ll get the door,” he put one hand in his pocket, “and Max, please mix up that Margarita,
pronto
. I have a feeling I’m going to need it.”

*

Although Max was kind enough to sit Luc next to him and Jonathan next to Philip, Luc did not easily surrender what was originally offered. He used all his sexual ammunition to catch his prey. There was no denying Luc’s dark, brown eyes, lascivious accent, and exquisite European features were alluring, but Philip knew deep inside they didn’t compare to the sensations he felt sitting next to Jonathan — the comfort and security dancing silently between the two of them. Not to mention the spark of sexual excitement that ran through him whenever their knees touched beneath the table or Jonathan brushed his arm. Luc was sexy, no doubt about it. But Jonathan was so much more. This was the clichéd epitome of love at first sight.

They decided to fight Luc off together, ignoring his intimate stares and sexual innuendos throughout dinner, finally confronting him when he ambushed Philip on the deck.

“Happy birthday, Philip,” Luc whispered in his ear while cupping his right butt cheek. “What you say I take you to my apartment for your special birthday present?”

At first Philip thought it was Jonathan’s hand grabbing his ass, but once he heard Luc’s voice, he laughed at himself. From the moment he and Jonathan met, there’d been no flirtatious smiles or batting of the eyes; no looking one another up and down trying to figure out who would take which role when they hit the sack. What they felt for one another was more wonderment than anything else — deep curiosity about who this person was, and could he be as beautiful on the inside and he was on the outside.

Philip gently removed Luc’s hand, turned around, and let the arm drop. He was about to tell him off when he realized it wasn’t Luc’s fault. Luc was primed by Max to expect something that wasn’t going to happen. And, if Jonathan hadn’t shown up tonight, he’d be in Luc’s apartment right now, preparing for his first European sexual encounter.

“Everything all right?” Jonathan called from the doorway. “Philip? You okay?”

“Everything’s good, Jonathan,” he answered, still staring at Luc. “Luc, I’m sorry, but it just isn’t going to happen.” He backed toward the door until he could feel Jonathan’s warmth on his back. “But thanks for the offer — and thank you for coming.”

A drop of sweat rolled down Philip’s back. It was over. Thank God!

“It’s over,” Jonathan said, “Thank God.”

Philip shot a look at Jonathan. “Holy shit! Can you read minds, too?”

Jonathan handed Philip a drink. “Only on special occasions.”

*

They didn’t sleep together until their fifth date. The wait was a mutual decision, both of them knowing this relationship was different and shouldn’t be treated lightly.

“And how many others
have
you had?” Philip asked at dinner one night. Jonathan brought the napkin to his mouth and looked up to the ceiling as though counting endlessly. He then lifted his wine glass and gently clinked it against Philip’s. “
Others
?” He took a sip of wine. “Since I met you, I realize there have never been others.”

Philip snorted, then laughed.

“Oh, boy, you really are
a writer. So cool and collected. And you always find just the right words, don’t you?”

Jonathan chuckled. “Not always, but usually.” He grasped the stem of his wine glass, staring at the white tablecloth as though it held the answers to life’s deepest questions. “But don’t let these first few dates fool you. If you haven’t noticed, I have a slightly obsessive, sort of neurotic, definitively Type A personality. There’s plenty about me to love, but also a lot to contend with.” He clasped his hands beneath the table and looked at Philip awaiting a response. “There, it’s out. Now you know.”

“You don’t hide it as well as you think.” Philip leaned back in his chair. “But I’m thinking that’s part of your charm. That… and your great butt, of course.”

“So I’ve been told,” smirked Jonathan.

Philip smiled back and peered deep into Jonathan’s eyes. This would be the night they’d be together, he felt it, and by the look on Jonathan’s face, he knew the feeling was mutual. He waved to the waiter and signaled for the bill.

“I think it’s time to leave now,” he said, his voice holding the most subtle tremble.

“I thought you’d never ask,” Jonathan was already standing and pushing his chair up to the table.

*

“Where did
you
go,
my dear friend?” asked a voice from somewhere in the distance.

Still sitting at the dining room table, Philip rubbed his eyes and shook his head. Angela stood next to him, touching his hair with her fingertips.

“Just thinking,” he said, reluctantly coming back to the present. “I was remembering, actually.”

“Remembering what?” she twirled his blonde locks around her index finger. “When we were going to school?”

“No, back to when I first met Jonathan. My twenty-fifth birthday.”

“Oh.” Her fingers stopped moving. She edged backward and sat in her chair. “You really love him, huh?”

“Yes.”

“That sounds definitive. No ifs, ands or buts about it?”

“None,” he said, grabbing her hand in both of his. He turned around to look toward the kitchen. “But don’t tell Jonathan. I don’t want him to think he has the upper hand.”

“I’m sure he’s already on to you.” She pulled her hand away. “It’s been, what, ten, eleven years you’ve been together?”

“Twelve,” he said.

Angela gently touched his nose with the tip of her finger. “Honestly, I’ve seen people together less than two years who don’t look as happy as you… or who get along as well as the two of you. What’s your secret?”

“What’s this about secrets?” Jonathan placed a full glass in front of Angela and pointed to her cell phone. “Everything okay?”

Angela took a sip of her G&T and pursed her lips. “Yum!” She picked up her phone and clicked the ringer to vibrate. “Yes, everything’s okay. Just work calling me, as usual.”

“Oh, that sucks. I thought it might’ve been your boyfriend.”

“Jonathan!” Philip lightly slapped his hand. “Don’t insinuate for God’s sake. If she wants us to know about a boyfriend, she’ll tell us.” He looked at Angela. “So, do you have a boyfriend?”

Angela sat down next to Philip. She leaned her head to one side and looked down at the table. This was the saddest she’d looked all night. He shouldn’t have asked her the question.

“No. There’s no boyfriend,” she said, picking lightly at the tablecloth with her long, rose-colored fingernails. “I might look different on the outside, but I don’t feel it on the inside. I’m working with my shrink on that.”

Jonathan sat down on the other side of Philip and gave him a slight side kick on his ankle. Philip kicked him back and then turned toward Angela, hoping his movement would deflect any detection of their childish foot fighting.

“I’m sorry, Angie. I shouldn’t have pried.” He looked at Jonathan then back to Angela. “It’s his fault. He brings it out in me.”

Another side kick.

Angela’s grimace turned to a smile. “No, please, don’t even think about it. You can ask me anything you want. Especially since I have such big question for you.”

Philip braced for another kick, but it didn’t come. The playing had stopped. Jonathan’s way of saying, “I told you so.”

6

Something was different about tonight: very different. He could smell it through the bleach mopped over the hallway floor; feel it in the moist spaces between the tenuous skin of his fingers. An invisible tension hung in the air, adrift until something or someone shook it loose.

He’d awakened a few moments earlier by what he thought was the door creaking. A nurse? An aide? Another nursing home denizen? A doctor?

Jonathan looked at the clock: 12:37.

“Shit.” He felt the usual dryness in the back of his throat. Sooner or later he’d have to pull his arm out from under the blanket and grope around the bedside table for the cup of water. “Shit.”

He could see the outline of the door, light from the hallway trying to push in through the edges. He squinted, attempting to see if anyone had entered the room and was hiding in silence, waiting for the right moment to attack.

“Hello?” He noted the tremble in his voice, not so much from fear as from old age. For a split second, that shakiness made him wish that someone
was
hiding in the darkness — someone who’d spring from the shadows and smother him with a pillow. That would bring him to the place he wanted to be, so much sooner than life’s normal course of events.

He tried to swallow, the dryness like splintered wood against the sides of his throat. Reaching for the cup of water, he cleared his throat.

“If you’re going to get me, do it now,” he whispered.

Nothing. He took a sip of water from the cup. It hurt going down, his throat still parched. By the third sip, his throat felt better and the search in the darkness for a possible attacker had ceased. He realized he was alone. Again. As he’d been every night for the past thirty years. As he’d be every night until he took his last breath.

He still couldn’t understand the unusual feeling crawling around inside him. It wasn’t a sensation of impending doom, but more the inexplicable excitement of something so unlike anything he’d ever experienced, it induced both fear and wonder.