Music pumped through the dark space, and Theo felt that some late-night element was missing until he realized there was no cigarette smoke clouding the dance floor. Times had moved forward, and so had he, and yet a part of him remained stuck, frozen in the past, a young man filled with panic and need and a longing for Jack’s body pressed against his own.

“Here you are.” Phil handed him his martini on the rocks, and he debated drinking it all in one great gulp; maybe drunkenness would make this easier. There was a clashing of things—cologne, and dim lights, and the music in this space pressed down, compacted by the music of the lesbian bar upstairs. He was surrounded by men, kids as young as he had been, and men his own age, every body type, and he got looks from everyone, assessing, and a part of him was aroused even as he was uncomfortable.

Maybe he should just—for so long he had denied himself this. Closeness. He hadn’t wanted to let anyone near him; he didn’t want to open that door.

Phil was cool, energy coiled in his muscles, as he drank his scotch, and his eyes flitted from man to man. His refined features garnered looks, too; some of the bar’s patrons gazed at them both, wondering. Wondering if they were together; hoping they were a package deal. And he had thought about that once—Phil was so handsome, so striking, some deep pulsing of attraction for his friend within him, but he couldn’t. Genni would kill them both, even though Theo knew full well that they sometimes brought...additional friends into their bedroom. There was too much between them all. And he imagined that kissing Phil, such a close companion, would be about as thrilling as kissing a potted plant.

“I don’t know what I’m doing here.” Theo turned toward the bar, his back to all the men dancing behind him. He was tense, quiet; Phil sat with him and put a hand on his arm.

“I know.” He sipped his drink. “But we thought it might be good. To try.”

Theo laughed a little into his gin, poked the sliced lime with his cocktail straw. “Try what?”

Phil gave him a long, incisive stare.

“I’m not some poor middle-aged man finding out about his sexuality too late. I already know—have known—”

“Of course.” Phil swiveled on his barstool, and Theo followed, gazing into the crowd.

There was freedom, here, if he chose to grasp at it. So many attractive men, here in this conclave, and he thought about pulling someone into a dark corner, or taking someone home, shocking his mother and not caring, really, about the look on her face. And so much of him wanted—he wanted to be touched. He craved it, always had, this sense of closeness.