“Okay. Sure. That was part of it. But I’m comfortable, I don’t know. I like how I dress.”
“You wore a nice black tux when you went to the Golden Globes with your actor husband and didn’t pull a Billy Porter and wear hot pink or a skirt.”
“I don’t have a problem with that, though. People should feel free to express themselves however they wish. But I’m a black tux. I’m not a pink ballgown.”
“Uh-huh. Not that we would, but, like, if I ever got nominated for an Emmy or something, I wouldsowear something over-the-top. Like, a gold brocade tux.”
Nolan grimaced. “Okay.”
“Not your thing, I get it. Just saying.” Grayson returned to his breakfast. “I tried wearing a skirt once for, like, two days in college because I wanted to prove that gender is a construct and I’m here and queer and all that, but there was just so much… air. Under there, I mean. I didn’t like it.”
“So, wait…. Are you dressing up for the show to make some kind of statement?”
Grayson grinned. “Not exactly. But I’m not holding back either. I thought I might have to, for the housewives in flyover states, but Helena told me to dress however I wanted. So I’m being authentically myself.”
“Okay.”
“You can’t tell right now because I’m just wearing my underwear.”
Nolan snorted a laugh and went back to eating.
NOLAN DIDN’Twant to think too hard about what a cliché it was for them to go shopping together, and yet he found himself in his favorite men’s clothing shop, a little boutique in Chelsea, with Grayson.
“Ilovethis,” Grayson said, picking up a cabled cardigan from a rack.
Nolan perused the sweaters on a table without picking anything up. He was charmed by Grayson—who talked pretty much constantly—and the way he moved through the store, just grabbing whatever he wanted. Grayson had a great body and certainly wore clothes well; with his jaunty haircut, he could wear almost anything and still look like a model.
“Hey, Nolan.”
Nolan turned and saw his friend Stephen. Stephen lived in the neighborhood and was an editor who had been trying to talk Nolan into writing a book on home design. Nolan had been putting him off—he was no great writer and also didn’t understand why people were always trying to get him to do things outside his skillset when he was really good at one thing—but here he was in the store.
“Hi, Stephen. How are you?”
“Great. It’s good to see you. That little chatterbox over there yours?”
Nolan bristled at the use of the possessive but also didn’t feel like he needed to explain himself. “Yeah, sort of.”
The expression on Stephen’s face was approving, which grossed Nolan out a little. Sure, Grayson was a hot young thing, but that wasn’t why Nolan was with him right now.
“He’sverypretty,” said Stephen.
“He’s my costar on that Restoration Channel show I’m doing.” Nolan didn’t want to admit he was rebounding, and he didn’t think that was what this was anyway. Not completely. “We’re just… shopping.”
“Oh. Because I thought—”
“Yeah, I know what you thought.”
“It’s been a year. No one would judge.”
Nolan shoved his hands in his pockets so he wouldn’t be tempted to punch Stephen.
He was glad there were people in this world who did not have the intimate relationship with grief that Nolan did. He was glad that there were people who didn’t wake up and reach for spouses who weren’t there. He was happy there were people who weren’t sometimes struck out of nowhere with the pain of missing someone they would never see again. He was thrilled Stephen likely didn’t spend his days off sobbing in his living room because he still missed someone every damned day. He didn’t want Stephen to truly understand what he was going through, because he didn’t wish that on anyone.
At the same time, Stephen needed to shut upbecausehe did not understand.
Things weren’t as bad now as they had been a year ago. Now Nolan could go for hours, days sometimes, without that ache in his chest.
And, okay,maybepart of his reticence to get involved with Grayson was less about Grayson’s age and more about Ricky than anything else.
