“Hurts?” she asked.
Quentin shook his head and wiped his face roughly with the back of his palm.
“I don’t know why I’m—” He stopped himself and rubbed his hands on his pants. He tried to laugh, but it escaped from his throat as a scrap of sob.
“It’s just tender,” said Cleo, cupping his cheek with her palm. “He got your tender part, is all.”
He bowed his head and pressed his forehead to hers. He was about to tell her that all of him was the tender part when her phone buzzed and she pulled away.
“I’ll tell Frank to meet us here, shall I?” she said.
Quentin felt a jolt of irritation.
“Or you could not?”
“Quentin.” She put on her stern maternal voice. “You know how much he works, and the weekends are our only real time together. Please don’t be difficult about this.”
“Can’t you just bail?” whined Quentin. “You bail on things all the time. It’s one of your greatest attributes.”
“But I don’t want to. I was painting all morning, and now I want to see my husband.”
“You can just call him Frank. I hate all this ‘my husband’ crap.”
“But he is my husband!”
“Only because you needed a visa.”
“For the one hundredth time, it is not just a visa marriage.” She exhaled wearily. “Why are you acting like this? You like Frank, remember? He makes me happier than anyone I’ve ever known …”
Cleo launched into a monologue about her and Frank’s marital bliss, but Quentin had lost interest. Quentin did like Frank—he was always down to party, and unlike the litter of unwashed skateboarders and street artists Cleo usually dated, he had some money at least—but he was not Cleo’s person. Quentin was. Quentin suspected deep down that he and Cleo would end up together, not romantically of course, but as true soul mates, growing old together in some crumbling town house uptown surrounded by pedigreed dogs and vintage furs. Frank was just a brief interlude into the tropes of traditional heterosexuality for Cleo. He and Cleo belonged together, were more like family to each other than either of their real families ever had been. They were practically sisters.
“… I’ve even gone off my antidepressants,” Cleo was saying.
Quentin snapped back to attention.
“Babe, no. That is not a good idea for you. Remember sad Cleo of yesteryear? No one needs her to make a comeback.”
“That was just because I was lonely and, you know, all the stuff with my mum. My life’s really different now. I have Frank, I have a proper home—”
“His home.”
“Our home. I just think I’m a lot more set up to be happy now. I know I am.”
Quentin felt a wave of concern, followed by a riptide of apathy. In the end, she was going to do whatever she wanted to do.
“It’s your life.” He shrugged. “Just let me ask you one question. And you have to answer honestly.” He looked deep into her eyes. “When was the last time you were with a straight man, I’m talking any straight man, and he said something more interesting than what you were already thinking?”
Cleo laughed and turned away.
“I’ll tell Frank to bring us lunch,” she said.
“I’ll take that as a never.”
By the time Frank arrived, loaded with bags of sushi takeout, Quentin’s chin had turned a mottled purple and was producing a dull, aching throb. Cleo ran to greet Frank as if he were a soldier returning from war with spoils, fussing over the plastic containers of miso soup, seaweed salad, and rice.
“At least now you can say you’ve taken a punch standing,” said Frank. “That’s more than I can say.”
Quentin flicked his eyes up and down Frank.
“Why is that not surprising,” he said. “Remind me why you’re here again?”
Cleo gave him an imploring look.
“Hey, I was worried about you,” said Frank, removing his hand from Cleo. “Anyway, it might be good to have a man around, you know, in case he comes back.”
“In my experience, having a man around is usually the problem,” said Quentin.
Frank laughed. “No disagreements here.”
But when Johnny did return later that evening, Quentin was glad to have Frank there. They were watching one of Quentin’s favorite documentaries, Princess Diana: Her Life in Jewels, while drinking screwdrivers with the now warm vodka when they heard the front door open. Johnny yelled Quentin’s name. His voice sounded thick and muffled. Cleo put her hand on Quentin’s leg and motioned for him not to move. Frank stood up and went to the front room. Quentin could hear them murmuring, then Johnny’s voice growing louder, demanding to see him. Quentin shook Cleo off and moved closer to the front hall.
“He doesn’t want to see me?” Johnny was slurring. “I don’t want to see him.”
“All right,” said Frank, ushering him toward the door. “Why don’t you come back when you’ve sobered up.”
“You know he thinks he’s a woman, right?” Johnny continued. “All his dresses …” Johnny started cackling. “He’s never going to meet someone better than me.”
Beyond the front door, Quentin could hear a siren’s wail passing. The thought occurred to him that if you listened hard enough in New York, you could always hear a siren. Someone, somewhere, was always getting hurt.
“All right, I’m going,” said Johnny.
Quentin peered out of the living room into the hallway. Johnny was standing on the top step of the stoop, silhouetted by the yellow streetlamp. He turned to go, then changed his mind and wobbled to face Frank again.
“Gay men want to date men,” he said. “That’s the reality.”
“Enough,” said Frank. “Go sleep it off.”
“I see you, Quentin!” Johnny yelled past Frank’s shoulder. “Little trans freak!”
Frank shut the door and stood with his back to Quentin. Johnny was still yelling something about reality on the street outside. Quentin watched Frank’s back. What was he thinking? Was he judging him? Pitying him? He probably thought he was just another fucked-up fag with a closetful of dresses. He must think he was pathetic. Frank turned and caught his eye. He walked over and squeezed Quentin’s shoulder.
“I’ve gotta say,” Frank said, “I liked him more when I knew him less.”