Love is Always Write Anthology Volume 10

moment that West was being anything other than friendly. To keep his mind off of Riley, he studied, he worked, he carried on as he always had, and if a man caught his eye he'd ask for his number, like always.
    "Do you ever think about settling down?" Riley asked him when they'd lived together for two months.
    "No, do you?" West said, not looking up from his textbook. Riley was reclining on the couch, a book open on his knees, his lanky body taking up most of the room and his feet pressed against West's thigh. Riley wasn't exactly a monk, either. He had a date nearly every night he didn't have a performance, and most of those nights, too. West knew there were women who were happy to be under his arm during intermissions and come back with him to the apartment no matter how late it was when that night's performance ended.
    "Sometimes," said Riley and that made West look up. Riley smiled at him. "Isn't that the point of dating? Finding that person who'll always feel like home?"
    West looked down at his book again, a lump in his throat. "It depends on what you want," he said softly. "If you want variety and excitement or if you want safety and routine."
    "You don't think safety and excitement go together?"
    "Rarely," West said and got up from the couch. "I'm hungry. Do you want anything?"
    "If you make popcorn I'll eat some," Riley said and went back to his book.
    West made popcorn. Riley ate most of it; his feet pressed once more against West's thigh.
    ****
    Riley liked to text. His phone was constantly buzzing with people responding to him, and he would often chortle to himself as he read them and typed his replies. At first West thought it was ridiculous— why not talk like a normal person?— but then Riley texted him from the living room, and then started texting him during the work day, and then while West was out with a new guy, and it wasn't annoying. It was something to look forward to. West waited to respond between patients and classes and Riley always sent something worth reading, even if all West could say in response was a smile.
    Riley texted West sometimes when he was out with a girl, too. Usually it was along the lines of "Bored, distract me," so West told him stories or jokes he'd heard from his classmates or patients. He suspected it was Riley's way of ending a bad date early, particularly when Riley came home before midnight— before ten p.m. once, and shrugged when West asked how it went. "Move over," he said, so West moved his feet and Riley took the rest of the couch.
    West hesitated, then began to pet Riley's hair. "What was wrong with this one?"
    "Nothing, probably. I'm sure she'll make some accountant or geography teacher very happy."
    West tugged on a curl of Riley's hair and Riley grinned at him. "Be nice."
    "I'm very nice. Everybody says so." He rubbed the callus on his neck left by the violin. He had more on his fingertips from the strings. Music left its mark on him, like the pencil left a callus on the second finger of West's right hand. "It's— I mean, she's pretty, she's smart, she's the kind of girl everybody is looking for, right? If you're looking for a girl, anyway."
    "So what was wrong with her?" He sank his fingers deep into Riley's hair to massage his scalp.
    "I don't know. I wanted to be with you."
    West didn't say anything. Couldn't. It was all he could do to keep the rhythm of his fingers steady.
    "Anyway," sighed Riley, "here I am, watching bad TV with you on a Saturday night. What are you reading?"
    "The latest issue of Emotion ."
    "Sounds riveting," said Riley and got comfortable against West's legs. "Read to me."
    "We're watching bad TV."
    "I can do both at once if you can."
    "I can," said West and began to read.
    ****
    No one, thought West, would blame him for being confused. Riley liked women. He'd always liked women. He'd liked women in high school, no matter how often he stood up for West, and he'd like women all through college. He still liked women, particularly the women who came to the symphony in their best dresses and tasteful jewels, the kind who drank champagne and appreciated culture.
    There was little time for socializing that spring. The symphony had a performance almost every night, and even the occasional afternoon program with a most casual atmosphere. West went to as many as he could, squeezing them between classes, studying for his therapist's license and patient appointments, and Riley was as pleased to see him as he had been the first time.
    He said