“I know, baby,” Bill said, closing his eyes against tears he could not account for.

The next time, Nick said, “I’m going out with my friends after school. I’ll be home late,” Bill forced himself to say, “Okay, have fun.”

He wandered through the apartment, tried to distract himself with TV and then a book before breaking down and pouring a half tumbler of scotch. He sat at the kitchen table staring at his plate of Thai takeout, remembering Nick’s remark that all his friends were either girls or gay. He imagined Nick naked in another boy’s bed, pushed the food away and poured another drink. Nick found him passed out on the couch. When he awakened him, Bill grabbed him and mumbled, “Don’t leave me.”

Bill hoped his terror would diminish with the passing of time as familiarity created trust, but this did not happen. The fear was like the summer fog that rolled into the city, sometimes in wisps, sometimes in cold, obscuring clouds, but always present. He could not see past his own thoughts which spun and spun in anxious circles whenever Nick was away. Where was he? Who was he with? What was he doing? Had he met someone else? Was he, at this very moment, having sex with this other man? Was it just one man, or were there others? How many…? And on and on. Bill’s fears and fantasies were exhausting enough but trying to conceal them from Nick added another layer of anxiety and when he broke down, questioning Nick, accusing him, the arguments were poisonous. Now, Bill left the apartment as often as Nick following one of these fights, and when Bill left, he headed to a bathhouse or a backroom or someone’s dungeon where Bad Bill emerged for a few hours of obliterating, dark, drug-charged sex.

I’ve gone home.

Bill stared at the slip of paper, turned it over looking for a further message but there were only those three words in Nick’s distinctive scrawl. I’ve gone home. The bouquet of roses in his hand released its heavy fragrance into the still air. Autumn twilight darkened the room. Nick’s half-eaten bowl of cereal and cold mug of coffee were on the counter beside the sink where he had left them after their fight that morning. The answering machine blinked—three messages. Bill played them. They were the three calls he had made during the day apologizing to Nick for shoving him. Begging forgiveness. Nick must have left right after Bill had gone to the office. He grabbed a glass from the cupboard and went out into the dining room where he poured himself a scotch and swallowed it in a single gulp as if it were medicine. He poured another.