Love is Always Write Anthology Volume 5

immense talent because, he said, no one wanted to cast Asian actors. He also had an apartment near Lincoln Center. When I asked what he had done to earn enough money for that, he said, "I don't have any furniture." I worried that this would be my fate as well—not a lot of gay leading men in Hollywood.
    In those days, we'd walk around our neighborhood and Jess would torture himself by looking at the fine clothes in shop windows. We'd walk up to fine restaurants and consider the menus posted outside as if eating there were a viable option. We'd pretend we had access to all of the wonderful things we imagined we'd have when we moved to the city, even though we had nothing.
    Change came gradually. I got better at auditioning, better at coping with competition I hadn't had back in Ohio, better at choosing roles I'd be well suited for. Jess started modeling and took the bar back job. We moved into a better apartment—still in an old tenement building, because we liked the Lower East Side, but a clean one-bedroom.
    Those lean years, they sucked in a lot of ways. There were weeks when we couldn't afford groceries, days when we had to mend clothes ourselves because they'd torn but we couldn't replace them, months when all we could do was worry about when our next paycheck would come. But through all of it, we had each other. We'd spend three dollars on a movie rental and huddle on the battered futon that doubled as our bed while we watched it, and we'd hold each other and laugh and make love when it was over. There always seemed to be the potential for something, and I don't think either of us ever gave up hope that someday, we'd both be greater than this, that our time was coming.
    Now the time has come. I have enough money in my bank account to buy Jess all the sparkly scarves he wants. Instead, though, I'm lying awake in bed one night—in a real bed, because we chucked the old futon when we moved—and he's fast asleep, turned away from me, snoring softly. I examine his back, because that's what there is to look at. He's still super thin, but not as starved-looking as he once was. At first glance, he's more muscle than bone. His hair—dyed a rich dark brown—is a little on the long side these days and the edges of it touch his pillow and cover his long neck, which leads to his narrow shoulders and the long line of his naked back, which is all I can see. He's so beautiful. I still ache sometimes when I look at him.
    I roll onto my side and put a hand on his waist. He stirs but doesn't wake up, because he's used to these late night intrusions. I scoot over and press my front to his back, pull him into my arms. He murmurs something but stays asleep. I press my hand to his stomach. I take his hand. I hold him close. I kiss his shoulder.
    "You okay?" he asks sleepily.
    "Fine. Just getting comfortable."
    "Mmm." Then he's asleep again.
    I love this man so much. I have, I think, since the moment I first set eyes on him. Now we're poised to have everything we ever wanted. Except maybe each other—we're drifting apart. That sense that the two of us are a team out to conquer the world, out to save each other, we don't have that anymore. We just drift along, go to work, come back at night. We exist. It's not like it used to be, because it doesn't have to be that way anymore. And it breaks my heart.
    ****
    JESS
    Sam's been acting weird all morning, quiet and kind of distant, but I'm still afraid to ask him what's wrong. It's a cliché, isn't it, this fear? Like I'm a lonely housewife just waiting to find lipstick on her husband's collar. But I can't shake the idea that he's hiding something—maybe not infidelity, but something —and I can't bring myself to find out what.
    He stands in the kitchen and pours himself a bowl of cereal. I grab a sticky bun from the fridge and eat it with my hands while I lean on the counter and watch him. He turns around and gives me a little half-smile. All these years of living together means this isn't awkward like it was sometimes when we first moved here together, when we were so worried that one wrong move would mean the end of everything.
    He says, "I found out yesterday. We're going on the road. Two weeks in San Francisco and then two weeks in Chicago. We leave three weeks from Friday."
    My heart sinks. On the one hand, maybe that's all that his weird behavior signifies. On the other, I hate when he goes out of town. "Oh."
    "You could come with me, you know. Evie is bringing her