He let Alex spit on his palm and push inside him, and the pain mingled with that word, girl.
Quentin woke on his back with the light in his eyes. They had made a bed on the living room floor using the sofa cushions and two of Quentin’s fur coats. They were both naked, Alex’s back curved to Quentin’s side. Quentin turned and very gently cupped the back of Alex’s head with his hand. Alex stirred immediately, turning onto his back and shielding his eyes with the crook of his arm. A sunbeam striped his face.
“Did we sleep?” he asked.
“A little,” said Quentin.
“Water,” he said.
Alex stood up stiffly, scooping his underwear off the floor with his foot and flicking it into his hand. He pulled it on and walked to the kitchen. Quentin balanced himself on his elbows and watched Alex turn the tap on, leaning to drink straight from the faucet like a cat. He splashed the water over his face and neck.
Alex returned from the kitchen and began plucking his clothes from the pile on the floor without looking at Quentin.
“You have to go?” Quentin asked.
“Yes, I should work today.”
Quentin stood up and cast around for his own underwear. As he slid them on, the day, with its acid-mouthed hangover and hollow comedown, felt like an unbearable debt to pay. He moved behind Alex and rested his cheek against the back of his shoulder, feeling the rough denim of his jacket against his skin.
“You could stay,” he said into Alex’s back. “If you want. Stay.”
Alex turned to face him with a puzzled, searching look. He said nothing.
“I’ll walk you out,” Quentin said. “Let me get dressed.”
He retreated upstairs to his bedroom and stood uncertainly in front of the clothes that still remained in his wardrobe. He pulled on a pair of basketball shorts and an old T-shirt of Johnny’s, then went back downstairs. Alex had his shoes on and was standing in front of the dining table, looking intently at a pile of euros.
“Do you need these?” Alex said, turning to Quentin. “I can exchange for dollars.”
“Seriously? I think you’re selling yourself a bit short.” Quentin tried to force a laugh. “That will only be about sixty.”
“It’s not for anything,” Alex said. “Is just a gift. You don’t need it. See—” he stooped to pick up a note that had fallen to the floor under the table. “You leave it lying around like nothing.”
“Fine, take it,” Quentin said, feeling ashamed for them both. “You’re right, it is nothing. Let’s go.”
He followed Alex down the hall, watching the soft blank square of his neck above his jacket move. They reached the door, and Quentin picked up the wallet and keys he’d dropped the night before. He tried to smile. His face felt like a new, more fragile thing.
They walked together as far as the corner and said goodbye without touching. Quentin headed in the opposite direction and sat on a stoop to light a cigarette. He could feel people staring at him as they bounced by on their morning jogs or shepherded their children to the playground down the block. He didn’t care. He would go home soon and get Lulu, take her for a walk. Maybe buy some flowers at the farmer’s market. He looked down at his phone. Cleo was calling. The day, after all, was just beginning.
CHAPTER FOUR
Early August
Frank was having a long day. Not only had his new client, the second largest rum manufacturer in South America, asked for yet another edit of a fifteen-second TV spot that should have been wrapped and delivered weeks ago, but this particular spot was from a shoot they’d relocated to Buenos Aires, which meant that Frank had not been able to attend, despite having promised the client he’d oversee all shoots personally, because it had coincided with the week he married Cleo, and the footage that he now found himself looking at from the shoot that he had not actually been present at but must now pretend he had overseen was, to Frank’s eye, tainted, no, blighted, by the presence of an extra so colossally miscast that Frank had to question whether he was surrounded by incompetents, or if someone on his staff was indeed out to fuck him. He was also hungover. Painfully, royally hungover.
“There,” Frank said, jabbing a finger at the large screen silhouetting him and the editor, a pasty guy he thought might be called Joe. “Right. There. Am I the only one who sees this large, shirtless white guy in the frame? Tell me, seriously, can you not see him?”
“Oh yeah,” said the editor, cracking his knuckles with such obvious satisfaction that Frank had to restrain himself from reaching over and snapping his fingers like breadsticks. “What’s he doing there?”