Aria (17 page)

Better to talk about it later, when we’re home.
He knew enough from his own experience as a lawyer that things were always easier to handle on your home turf.

Sam’s response seemed to placate Aiden, who wore a pleasant, relaxed expression. Sam had begun to wonder if it was all an act. Aiden was a good actor, after all. “I’m glad.” He handed Sam the gravy bowl. “I know it’s important to you.”

Sam was about to protest when Becca came into the kitchen and announced, “The parental units told me you can finish the dishes later. They want you to sing for them, Aiden.”

T
HERE were few things Aiden hated more than singing at parties and informal gatherings, and yet he was asked to do it all the time. He complained to his best friend, Cary Redding, about it once. After joking that playing the cello was a distinct advantage when it came to avoiding impromptu performances, Cary had been more than understanding.

“You wouldn’t ask a dentist to look at your tooth, would you?” Cary asked as he waved the tequila bottle around, then handed it to Aiden.

Aiden countered.
“Let me see… ‘Things not to ask at a cocktail party’… You
wouldn’t ask a vet to neuter your dog.”
“Ouch!” Aiden made a face, then added, “You wouldn’t ask a
computer programmer to fix your Internet connection.”
“You wouldn’t ask a beautician to wax your crack.” Cary’s smile
was pure evil. Aiden snorted, sending some tequila up his nose, which
made him cough.
This had rapidly deteriorated until Cary ended with, “You
wouldn’t ask a proctologist to stick his finger up your ass.” “Not without buying me dinner first,” Aiden deadpanned. Both of
them laughed until they cried. It had meant so much that Cary had
understood. But now….
“Sure. I’ll be there in a minute, Becca.” Aiden knew that this
time, there wasn’t a choice. Not really.
“I don’t think—” Sam began, but Becca was gone before he could
finish. “This okay with you?” He looked at Aiden with concern. “It’s fine. Happens all the time.” The truth, although not the
complete truth.
“You seem uncomfortable with it.”
“It’s fine, Sam. I sang at David’s birthday, remember?” Aiden
knew that had been different: he had
chosen
to sing for David, knowing
how much it meant to him.
“You sure? Because—”
“I said it’s fine.” Aiden heard the tension in his own voice. He
took a deep breath and tried to recollect himself, regain his control. Sam touched his shoulder.
“Sorry. I guess I’m just a little tired.” He hugged Sam and made a
point of smiling reassuringly. He was good at that, smiling like he
meant it.
Sam didn’t look convinced, but he let the subject drop. When
Becca poked her head back in the kitchen to see what was taking them
so long, Sam and Aiden followed silently.
It wasn’t all that bad, Aiden tried to convince himself later as he
lay awake in bed early the next morning. Sam’s family seemed to
genuinely enjoy his renditions of “He Touched Me” and “Amazing
Grace,” both of which he’d learned listening to an old Elvis album.
Sam’s father, it turned out, was a bit of a closet Elvis fan and had
opened up a bit about Memphis and Graceland when Aiden told him
he’d always loved Elvis’s voice.
Still, Aiden was sure Sam’s family thought of him as a novelty,
not as their son’s boyfriend, let alone his partner. The feeling persisted
throughout the weekend. By the time he and Sam said their good-byes
at the Memphis airport, Aiden was looking forward to getting back to
Europe.

T
HE courtroom emptied quickly, and Sam gathered up his papers and slid them into his briefcase. He glanced over at the table where the other attorney was also packing up and smiled. The man ignored him.

“Something crawl up his ass and die?” his colleague, Yvette, whispered in his ear. “You’d think he’d be happy with this jury. Judge was riding you pretty hard.”

“No idea. Probably tired. It’s been a long day.”
She raised an eyebrow at him and shook her head.
An hour later, he was back in his office checking e-mail when

Yvette came in waving what looked like a newspaper in her right hand. “What is it?” Sam was tired and unwilling to engage her again on the subject of the judge.

He took the paper from her and opened it. It was a tabloid—the kind of thing you’d read at a supermarket checkout counter, then surreptitiously put back before the person in front of you finished paying for their groceries. There was a large color photo on the front: two men kissing. A passionate kiss. It was a photograph of him and Aiden. The caption read
Heartbroken Opera Singer Finds Romance at Last.

“And what do you want me to do about this?” He inhaled and slowly released the air between his lips. “It’s not a big surprise. I’ve been out for years.”
“But the judge—”
“Already knows I’m gay,” he interrupted. “What’s he going to

do? Call me out on it?”
“Motion to disqualify?”
Sam snorted. “Not likely. What evidence do you have that he’s

treating me differently because of the article? He won’t recuse himself. You know it takes a hell of a lot more than disliking someone to make a judge reassign the case.”

“But—”
“Yvette,” he warned, “let it go.”
“But he’s a federal judge.”
“And he’s not going to do anything to screw that whole ‘lifetime

appointment’ thing up. Trust me.”
She huffed softly, then said, “You’re the boss.”
“If it becomes a real problem, I’ll ask Stacey to take over the

case. But it won’t come to that.” He smiled reassuringly at her. “Trust me. I’ve been at this a few more years than you. Sometimes you have to take the shit.”

At the time, he’d meant it. But when he checked his messages back at the office an hour later, he found that his mother had called. She hadn’t directly mentioned the tabloid story, but she told him she loved him “no matter what.” And she hadn’t mentioned Sam’s father, either. That was never a good sign. The old man was undoubtedly pissed; he didn’t enjoy being thrust into the spotlight. Bad for business.

His mother’s message was followed by another from Becca, who told him she wanted “all the juicy details,” and would “keep calling until you call me back.” He figured he had about two hours before she called again.
Better sooner than later,
he thought as he dialed his parents’ number. He’d get back to Becca when he’d had a drink at home. At this rate, he’d need at least a few.

T
HAT evening Sam stood on the balcony of his apartment, a double shot of whiskey in one hand—his third that night. He’d downed the first after the phone call to his mother, the second after the call to his sister. The liquor burned his throat, and for the first time that evening, he felt relaxed. His phone vibrated in his pocket, and he took a deep breath.

“Hey, Aiden.”
“Thank God.” Aiden’s voice had a slightly heady quality to it, and Sam guessed the performance had just ended. “I thought I’d miss you.”
“It’s good to hear your voice.”
“Sammy,” Aiden said, uncharacteristically clearing his throat, “there’s something I need to tell you. Something I—”
“I know about the photo.”
There was a moment of silence on the other end of the phone before Aiden said, “You… you know? But how?”
“Don’t sweat it. I never intended to hide my relationship with you.”
“But you never expected it to be plastered all over the papers, either. God, Sam. I’m so sorry. Ever since Cam, I’ve been their little pet project. I never wanted any of this publicity.”
“Not your fault. I guess my little stint as Beau caught their attention. Besides, I was the one who kissed
you
out in the open, remember?”
“Yes, but—”
“I won’t make excuses, Aiden. And I sure as hell don’t want you to act any differently around me because some nosy reporter wants to know who you’re living with.”
Sam heard Aiden’s released breath through the speaker. “Thanks.”
“Listen, Aiden, I’m beat. Can I call you tomorrow afternoon? It’s been a long day.”
“Okay. Sure.” Sam thought he heard a hint of disappointment in Aiden’s voice, but he was too tired to deal with it. He’d call Aiden when his head was clearer. “Miss you,” Aiden added. It sounded like an afterthought.
“I miss you too.”
He missed Aiden. How long had he been gone now? More than a month? Sam didn’t give a shit about the photo. Sure, it’d make his job harder in court, but he hadn’t been lying to Yvette when he’d said he could handle things.

You could have talked to Aiden. He’d have listened.
But he didn’t want to talk over the phone. He wanted Aiden here. Face-to-face. Maybe they’d talk a little; then Aiden would hold him and run his fingers through his hair. Maybe they’d make love or just fuck. Or maybe they’d watch a movie.
Sam refilled his drink and settled back into the chair. The stars were out and even the lights of the city didn’t seem to interfere with their bright light.
No moon. A night for reflection.
Sam vaguely remembered Nick saying that a moonless night was the universe’s way of telling him
not
to think for a change. “Light sometimes obscures things,” Nicky had told him. “It shows you the colors, but it doesn’t give you a chance to
feel
them.”
At the time Sam had been at a loss to understand. But now…. Did it help him to see his relationship with Aiden in the bright light of reality? Was the gossip shit reality, anyhow? What they had was something special—the comfortable rapport, the long conversations, the way Sam felt in Aiden’s arms or making love. That was love, wasn’t it? To know that another person made you feel safe? To want them with you all the time?

“I love you, Sammy,” Nick told him as they held hands and walked across the Brooklyn Bridge. They had spent the evening at South Street Seaport in lower Manhattan, having dinner with Nick’s older sister and her husband. It wasn’t the first time Nick had expressed those feelings to Sam, but something about the warm summer night, the sound of their feet against the wooden boards of the pedestrian walk that spanned the East River, just made it feel different.

“I love you too, Nicky.” It felt so
right
, so simple. It infused Sam with confidence, leaving no room for doubt, only the welcome and warm knowledge that this man was the only man for him.

“Why do you think people need to say ‘I love you too’?” Sam asked a moment later.
“It’s like breathing. Like fucking.” Nick laughed like a little kid. “It’s something we crave. We imagine love; sometimes we even make it up. But it’s always there, the need to be loved. If you overthink it, you can make yourself nuts.”
Funny, how the lawyer with all the big words couldn’t express things as clearly as the painter whose world was purely visual. But that’s one of the things he loved about Nick: he didn’t worry if what he said sounded intelligent. It was much like the beauty in his canvases. You couldn’t explain it, not easily, but the beauty was there nonetheless.
“I want to spend the rest of my life with you, Nicky,” Sam said as he gathered Nick into his arms right there in the middle of the bridge.
“Sounds like a plan.” They kissed. “But you didn’t have to say it. You can feel it, can’t you? We’re already there, Sammy. You sound like you’re waiting for something, but you’re not, really.”
Sam sighed and brushed his lips over Nick’s. “Yeah. You’re right. I’m already there. Here.”

Sam’s eyes filled with tears at the memory, and he realized he felt guilty, thinking about Nick. He stood up and walked back into the apartment. He’d take a shower and get some rest; then he’d call Aiden in the morning. He’d make the time to talk, even if it meant rearranging his appointments for the day. Some things were simply too important to wait.

“
F
UCK.” Aiden set down his phone and leaned back on the bed. He imagined what Sam smelled like, tried to recreate the crisp scent of his aftershave, but all he could smell was the stale hotel room.

Two more weeks and he’d see Sam again.
If
Sam wanted to see him after this. Aiden couldn’t help but notice the distance in Sam’s voice. As much as he wanted to rationalize it away as another lousy overseas connection, he knew he’d heard it: the hesitation, the pain.