I meet with Cameron, Dylan’s boyfriend, at Dylan’s apartment on Wednesday morning. I’m surprised that the two of them didn’t live together. Not judging, but they had been together for almost nine years, according to the lawyer.

When I arrived in California yesterday, I got set up at a nearby hotel, and then spent the day with the lawyer. We went over the will, he gave me the keys to Dylan’s apartment, and we set out a plan of action for me to attend to while here.

Cameron spent the day making arrangements at the funeral home for the service this afternoon. As per my impulsive ex’s instructions, Dylan wanted his body donated to science, whatever that means, and so the service will be a memorial only.

Despite having a key, I knock in case Cameron is already there. A beautiful dark-skinned man opens the door and I forget for a few seconds how to function. He’s almost as tall as me, but where I’m a little muscle and a lot of fluff, this man is all thin, streamlined muscle.

“I’m Cameron MacGowan,” he says, reaching out a hand through the open doorway. “You must be Ted.”

My mouth slams shut at that, my eyes unfortunately betraying my surprise. The man looks like he could be Michael Sam’s younger brother, not like he should be a member of The Pogues.

“Sorry,” I say, stepping inside where he ushers me to a stylish, but messy, living room.

“Don’t worry, I get that all the time.”

We stare at each other for a few awkward minutes, before I pull out my checklist to give me somewhere to direct my attention.

“I talked to the landlady yesterday. She said she won’t make me pay for the month if we can be out by the fifth, but we won’t get the security deposit back.”

Cameron scoffs. “That doesn’t surprise me. She never got to anything on time except for the rent. I tried and tried to get Dylan to move in with me …” Cameron’s voice breaks and he turns away abruptly, sitting so he can bury his head on his knees.

“Hey,” I say and pat his back. “It’s okay to get upset about all this. We all are. React however you need. I’m not going to judge.”

He nods but stays hidden away, so I decide to give him a little space and start looking around the place. We have three days to get all of Dylan’s things cleared out. At that point, I’m planning on shipping all of his financials back to Fort Collins so I can finish the paperwork up in the comfort of my own place. With Kieran. The only part I need to stay in California for is this cleaning out part. Thank god he didn’t own a place.

The apartment is small, a living room and dining room in one that looks into the kitchen, and a single bedroom and bath. No laundry, so he either had a service or the complex has machines, and no extra closets or storage. It’s kind of shocking to think someone could fit forty years of a life into such a small place, but maybe he kept things at Cameron’s.

The bedroom is decorated exactly how I would have imagined from Dylan. Enormous mirrors covering the walls, crazy-colored lights in tall towers, grey linens, and sleek black and chrome furniture. It takes two tries to open the closet, which is stuffed to bursting with clothes up top, and suitcases and extra bedding stuffed underneath.

“What do you need from me?” Cameron asks from the doorway. He has tried to pull himself together, but I can tell by the bags around his eyes and the general exhaustion written all over his face that he’s only seconds away from another breakdown.

“I don’t want to make this hard on you. What if you grab everything that you want, and leave it to me to dispose of the rest? His will says everything goes to you, so we can do an estate sale or something for the things you don’t want, but I was thinking with most of this it would be easier to just donate it. Especially given our time crunch. It would probably work out financially more in your favor to donate and get the tax write-off, rather than pay for another month’s rent.”

“Auntie Helen’s.”

“Sorry?”

Cameron pulls out his phone and after a few taps hands it over to me. “Auntie Helen’s. The thrift store helps people with HIV and AIDS. We used to shop there for fun, back when I was a broke college kid.”

He runs a hand along the edge of the clothing in the closet. They ripple after him, as if they were living things, also feeling Dylan’s loss.

“Unless you find some hidden personal items that I haven’t seen, you can get rid of everything in here. I’ve already gathered the few things that I want to keep.” He continues running his hand along everything in the room, down the comforter, across the shiny bare dresser, across his downcast reflection in the largest mirror by the door. It’s like he’s committing it all to memory one final time.

“That gives me a good place to start. Why don’t you go on back to your place so you can start to get ready? I’m sure you need some food or a nap. This is going to be a hard enough day for you.”

“Thank you.” His sad eyes soften, making him seem even more fragile. “You’re everything I imagined, you know. He picked the right person for this. He always spoke so highly of you. You were his everything, and I was always a little jealous of that. But thank you for being here.”

Cameron exits the apartment without another word, leaving me slack-jawed and reeling in his wake.

* * *

By midday, I have Dylan’s bedroom mostly cleared out. His suitcases are filled with clothes, and a few garbage bags as well since I haven’t stopped for boxes yet. I taped big signs on them so I wouldn’t accidentally throw them away. Bed linens have been gathered up so that I can wash them before donating, and all of the little odds and ends – boxes of photos and letters and cards shoved under the bed, plastic bags of condoms and lube and toys from his nightstand, jewelry lost in the corner of a dresser drawer – have been placed on the kitchen table to go through later.

I have a couple of hours left to get ready for the service, and I’m about to head back to my hotel when there’s a knock at the door. A shock of red hair visible through the peephole is enough to have me throwing open the door and pulling the man outside into my arms.

“I guess that answers whether or not you mind me showing up,” says a squeaky voice. I might be hugging him a little too hard.

“What are you doing here?”

“I couldn’t leave you to face this alone,” he says when I finally give him the space to breathe.

“What about your work?”

“I’ll deal with that later.”

I should feel guilty. Should feel worried for him or responsible that he made such an irresponsible decision, but right now I’m so damn happy to see Kieran, I don’t care.

“I was just about to go get ready. The service is in an hour and a half,” I tell him, pulling the door behind me and locking up. “Where are you staying?”

His silence grabs my attention. His hands twist together in front of him. “I hadn’t picked a spot yet. I wanted to see where you were staying.”

I pull him tight and kiss his temple. “You’re staying with me.”

“Are you sure?” he asks, still hesitant. “I don’t want to get in your way.”

“Positive,” I say as we walk to my rental car. Looking around, it’s the only car in the area. “How did you get here?”

“Uber.”

I unlock the doors with the key fob, but open Kieran’s door for him. Stilling him before he climbs in with a hand to his shoulder, I lean in again, desperate to remain close.

“Thank you.”

* * *

We walk arm in arm from the rental car to the funeral home hosting the service for Dylan. Kieran packed my best – only – suit, and I feel weird arriving like I’m dressed for a party or a night out. But it was either that or jeans and a t-shirt. At least I know Dylan would appreciate a little style at his funeral.

Kieran also looks amazing, but he had a plethora of suits to pick from due to his work. His black slacks fit perfectly but aren’t too obscene, and a grey shirt with white collar and cuffs and a black tie round out his subdued look. He still manages to look like a cover model, and I puff up a bit with pride knowing he’s at my side today.

“Mr. Decker,” I say to the lawyer, who stands off to the side probably because he doesn’t know anyone else here. Since we are in the same boat, I head straight to him to begin introductions.

“I’m so glad you were able to make it out.” Richard extends a hand to Kieran, and I realize that these are weird pleasantries to be having over a funeral. I tuck my arm back at my side as they shake each other’s hands. I don’t want it to look like I’m pawing at my boyfriend, but I still keep my shoulder touching his. Anything to be in contact.

A gentle tap to my shoulder has me turning to find Cameron, red-eyed and exhausted-looking in a plain black suit. He notices Kieran next to me and offers him a small nod. I step away slightly, missing the contact, but not wanting to rub my relationship into the face of a man who just lost his.

“I was hoping you would sit in the front row with me? Since no other family is here, and I know Dylan would have wanted you there.”

I can only imagine what Cameron is like under regular circumstances, since this tragedy has stripped everything away, leaving only a sad and desolate shell behind. He seems lost. And I haven’t even begun to unpack the revelation from earlier when he said he was always jealous of me. Whatever it is, I feel unable to tell him no, so Kieran and I follow after him to the front row of the small chapel belonging to the funeral home.

A picture of Dylan stands on a tripod, encircled with flowers, and there are vases of flowers covering the floor in front of a podium. My swallow catches in my throat, and a burning that I know will only get worse begins behind my eyes and nose. Standing here in front of a picture, the only thing to remain of the man himself, it’s all suddenly real.

Kieran takes my hand and leads me to the front bench, but the only thing I can think is, Don’t let Cameron see. Don’t upset Cameron. Because if I’m having this difficult of a time, I can only imagine what Cameron is going through. I shake off Kieran’s hand as I sit, trying to portray a vision of self-reliance, even though all I want right now is to melt into Kieran’s side and never leave.

I don’t stand up to speak. Neither does Cameron. A preacher says a few words that are too generic to mean anything to anyone who actually knew Dylan. A few coworkers and friends relate funny stories that are so far removed from the Dylan I knew growing up that I might as well be at a stranger’s funeral. Nothing about the boy that was so full of life that he lit up every room he entered. The boy that was never afraid to speak his mind, even when it meant getting the shit kicked out of him for telling the high school quarterback that he was hanging a little too obviously to the left. The boy that I learned how to love and how to have a broken heart with.

Kieran stuffs a tissue into my left hand, and when I blink to look at him, I realize that I’ve been crying. His eyes have a watery sheen to them too, and I want so badly to show him how much I appreciate him and how much I’m realizing he means to me, but I can’t here. So, I take the tissue, and give his hand a quick squeeze as a thank-you and return my attention to the front.

All too soon, and yet not soon enough, the service is over. Dylan deserved so much more than a tiny service in a funeral home with all the trite people telling their trite stories. Yet, I don’t think I could have stayed for longer. I’m worn thin as it is, and I think Cameron is even further ahead of me in that department. The fact that the man is walking and functioning says volumes about his strength and character.

And me, I’m consumed with guilt that a man I once loved is gone, and all I want to do is find comfort from that fact in the arms of the man that I now love.

After the funeral, part of me wonders if I should stay with Cameron and make sure he’s okay, but he doesn’t seem like a guy who would allow a stranger that kind of access. He’s surrounded by friends. I’m sure he’ll be fine. Instead, Kieran and I grab drive-thru sandwiches and head back to the hotel.

“What’s that on your neck?” I ask him when his back is to me, changing out of his suit. I was too exhausted earlier to notice, but now they shine like glaring purple-yellow beacons.

“It’s nothing.”

“It doesn’t look like nothing.”

Kieran focuses on unpacking our food from the bag, setting things out just so on the small wooden table by the front window.

“I was going to talk to you about it when we got back. I didn’t want to upset you while you’re here.”

He still hasn’t looked at me since I started my inquiry, which only makes my imagination run wild. “I think now you have to tell me.”

“I got fired yesterday,” he says, slumping into one of the strange, plush, purplish-blue dining chairs provided to “coordinate” with the dining table. The furniture has the effect of ruining my appetite. Or maybe it’s Kieran’s words. “Alexander hit on me again.”

“Hit on you? Since when does someone hitting on you leave bruises?”

He sighs, and finally raises his beautiful eyes to mine with extreme reluctance. I want to kill Alexander in that moment, for the defeat I see there.

“He tried to blackmail me into giving him a blow job. And got angry when I refused.”

“Did he hurt you in any other way?” I ask through gritted teeth, although I reach across the table to grab Kieran’s hand. The seconds that pass while I wait for the answer are some of the most terrifying of my life.

“No. Although he probably has some broken toes.” Kieran’s first smile of the afternoon is fleeting, but beautiful and filled with pride.

“That’s it. I’m returning with you tomorrow. Did you take pictures? I’ll go to the cops and find a lawyer–”

“Whoa. Hold on.” Kieran wrenches his hand out from under mine and holds it up. “I love that you want to be there for me, but you are needed here. I can handle this myself.”

“Why handle it yourself when you don’t need to? It’s okay to ask for help.”

Kieran’s face has lost all the hesitancy and defeat it held while talking about Alexander. He’s fired up and beautiful. But wrong. “I’m tired of feeling like a little kid. Like I can’t handle things on my own. I need to do this by myself. Besides, I’m pretty sure Ben is calling around for lawyers while I’m gone,” he adds with a shrug.

I’m not proud to admit it, but every other concern comes to a screeching halt at that admission. “So, you’ll let Ben help you, but you won’t let me?”

“I didn’t want him to help me either, but it’s different. Ben is my friend. I always help him in return, and I know it will all balance itself out.” Kieran looks genuinely puzzled, but so the fuck am I. What – just because we’re lovers means we’re not also friends? “But I feel like you have this need to always ride to my rescue, and I don’t want to be the victim or the damsel in distress in this relationship. It makes me feel like crap.”

He doesn’t see our relationship as balanced? I don’t even know how to process that or how to respond.

“Look, we can talk about this later, okay? Now is not the time, and I definitely did not want to dredge all this up after the emotional day that you’ve had.”

We eat our food in uncomfortable silence on a crappy hotel table, and for the first time since we started dating, I don’t clearly see our future together or my role in it.