Love is Always Write Anthology Volume 5

Even if it's not what I think, if he won't tell me, what kind of relationship do we have?
    I look at Matt, who really isn't bad looking. He's handsome, actually, in sort of a bland, unthreatening way.
    Matt pulls something out of his pocket and hands it to me. I pick it up and see it's a business card.
    "You feel like making decisions without Sam, give me a call," he says. Then he gets up and leaves the deli.
    ****
    SAM
    It's easy enough to throw myself into rehearsal to put my mind off the sinking feeling that I'm about to lose everything. Part of me knows I'm being melodramatic, but the conversation I had with Jess this morning about him coming with me on the road makes me think it's all just sand slipping through my fingers. He's seemed sad lately, but I don't know why. We hardly see each other unless we're in bed together, but even then, we haven't had sex in a while because we've both been so tired.
    I'm only twenty-eight. I can't be half of an old married couple.
    I don't see Tyler at all until I'm about to go. "You okay?" he asks. He follows me into the hallway.
    "Rough day," I say, pushing the button for the elevator.
    He nods and hoists his bag over his shoulder. "Anything I can do?"
    I turn to tell him off, but then the elevator pings. The doors slide open and I walk onto it. Tyler follows.
    There's nothing Tyler can do, although suddenly, I flash on some moments in rehearsal when I was teaching him the dances, when our bodies were close and the smell of him, of what we could be together, was all around us. Without wanting to, I think about him naked, about fucking him. He just stands there and smiles at me.
    The elevator pings again and the doors open to the building's lobby. I walk through it and wave at the doorman. Tyler trails after me, following me out onto the sidewalk.
    I think about everything he represents. He's a successful actor. He's done lots of Broadway. He's going to be in a movie. He knows a casting director. He wants me. He wants to help me succeed. He wants me sexually. He's not Jess. He's not Jess . He wants me.
    I start to panic. I should turn away and walk toward the subway or, even better, just walk downtown to my apartment and blow off this steam. What I should do is call Jess, have him meet me at the bar—no, wait, too many other gay guys there, too many distractions. What I should do is grab takeout, take it home, eat with Jess, make love to him like the world is ending, and fix my fucking life so I'm not so unhappy, because I have everything and yet I'm miserable suddenly.
    But what I do instead is stand on that sidewalk, look at Tyler, and say, "I don't know."
    "What don't you know?" he asks, taking a step forward.
    "Anything. What I'm doing. If I need help."
    "Are you asking for help? Because you've helped me so much that it's only fair for me to return the favor."
    "Maybe."
    He reaches over and dusts something off my shoulder. He smiles.
    "I should go," I say, gathering my wits finally.
    "Okay. I'll see you tomorrow." Then he steps forward again.
    I know he's going to hug me before he moves to do it, then I let him hug me, then I let him kiss my cheek, then I turn my face, then he's about to kiss me.
    I hop away.
    He's not Jess .
    That's what's wrong with my life. That's the problem. I have everything except Jess. He'll be there at home, he'll come running if I call him, but I don't really have him because of this weird distance between us, like the creaks of a house settling at night. I have this great job and these opportunities, but the love of my life is drifting away from me. I'd give up all of it and move back to Ohio in a heartbeat if it meant I got to keep Jess. Because he's what really matters to me, he's why I do all these things, he's why I wake up in the morning and come home at night. I have to fix this, I have to fix us. Then I will truly have everything I've ever wanted.
    "Sorry, Tyler," I say. "Go... I have to go. See you tomorrow."
    Then I do turn and run down the sidewalk.
    ****
    JESS
    Orchard Street makes me think of pushcarts and immigrants and huddled masses yearning to breathe free, even though these days it's all posh shops and cafes. I read a book about Ellis Island a few years ago that said that most immigrants to New York City settled in this neighborhood, whole families crammed into apartments even smaller than the one I share with Sam. I think it was a natural place for me and Sam to land when we got to New York. But now—I'm sitting on a bench in