Theo

On my way to the meeting with Riven and every lawyer in the city of New York, I’d taken the subway and it had been so, so bad. I’d gotten off at Thirty-Fourth Street because people kept talking to me on the train, only to get mobbed outside Penn Station because I walked past it, like a bonehead.

It had been so bad that, after the meeting, I’d taken Dougal up on his offer of a driver. But faced with the prospect of home, I’d asked the guy if he would mind just driving around for a little while. He’d been really nice about it, clearly able to tell I didn’t care where as long as we were moving.

As we crossed 181st Street, I asked the driver if he’d been heading for The Cloisters, and he said it was his wife’s favorite place to be alone but not by herself. His name was Dave, he told me. And if I wanted to go wander through for a bit, he was happy to wait. I told him he should come in, if he wanted, and paid for us both. He kept his distance, but I could sense that he had an eye on me from afar.

In front of The Unicorn in Captivity, he said softly, “This is my wife’s favorite.”

It was a lot of people’s favorite, I knew, and I nodded. Then I kicked myself for being rude after telling him to come in. “Why does she like it so much?”

He smiled fondly. “She came here for the first time when she was a little girl. And she saw all the placards talking about history and what things were like in medieval times. So, when she saw this tapestry, her first thought was that unicorns were animals that had been alive in medieval times, but were extinct now. She thought that for years.”

He shook his head and laughed.

“When she was in high school, someone was talking about imaginary creatures, and she said it just struck her suddenly that she’d been thinking it was true all those years. And when she thought back on it, she could remember all these moments when she should have seen they were imaginary, but that moment here, in the Cloisters, was so strong, and so influential, that she’d ignored the signs and just held on to what she thought was true. She was embarrassed when she told me that,” he went on, and his voice was warm and full of love. “But I thought it was about the sweetest thing I’d ever heard. We came here for our third date. That’s when she told me that story. And, man. I was gone over her.”

He gave me a smile, then walked away. I wandered outside and sat down on a bench in the garden, pulling my coat around me against the cold.

How strong the stories we told ourselves were. What power they had to shape how we saw the world, even when confronted with evidence to the contrary. Caleb told himself the story that no one could depend on him because he’d break their trust. Clearly based in some truth, it was a story he told so many times he’d finally taken it as unassailable. It hurt me to think that part of his recovery, part of taking responsibility for the very real pain he’d caused, was carving deep the groove of that story.

And what stories had I told myself? That I was unlovable. That I had to earn the right to be cared for. That unless I made myself indispensable, I would be tossed away.

“Fuck,” I muttered, dropping my head in my hands. “What a fucking pair.”

Someone cleared their throat next to me, and I looked up to see a woman holding her young daughter’s hand, looking at me scornfully.

“Sorry,” I murmured. The woman’s eyes went wide as she clearly recognized me, so I stood and walked away. The Cloisters would be closing in a few minutes anyway, and I realized that with our detour we’d be trying to get back downtown in peak rush-hour traffic. Just thinking about it made me tired.

When I caught up with Dave, he was clearly thinking the same thing, as he scanned his traffic app, which was already choked with red, the veins and arteries of Manhattan glutted.

“Should we brave it, or wait it out?” Dave asked.

“I’d— Wait, when is your shift over?” Dave bit his lip. “Oh, shit, man, I’m so sorry!”

“Don’t worry about it,” he said.

“No, I can’t believe I did this. Fuck, I’m such an asshole. I really am sorry. I should’ve asked earlier, and—”

“Mr. Decker, seriously. Don’t worry about it. I’m glad I got to go to The Cloisters. And, uh, if I’m honest…” He ran a hand through his hair, bashful. “I’m kind of a big fan, so it was nice to meet you.”

“Thanks for that. I still…man, I’m really sorry. Make sure you get overtime! Here, wait, I’ll tell Dougal right now.”

Dave reached out to stop me, but I texted Dougal anyway.

“Well,” Dave said. “Since I’m already off the clock and you clearly don’t have anywhere you’re trying to be, should we just wait it out?”

I nodded miserably.

“Okay. So, tell me about how you met your wife.”

---

I trudged through the doors of my building hours later, having waited out the worst of the traffic with Dave, then having him drop me at Pier 25 because I wanted some fresh air and a bit of a walk before I got home. In the dark, I didn’t think I’d be likely to be recognized.

Now it was nearly ten, I was starving, and I just wanted to crawl into bed. I couldn’t quite wrap my head around the fact that when I woke up tomorrow, I didn’t have anything to do. Nothing was planned for me—no photo shoots or press junkets, no recording sessions or merch meetings, no schmoozing and no planning.

No Riven.

I was surprised to see Antony at the front desk, since he didn’t usually come on shift until 11 P.M.

“Mr. Decker,” Antony said with a dip of his chin.

“Hey, Antony. You’re on early tonight, huh?”

“Yes, sir. Willis asked if I could cover a few hours, so here I am.”

He cleared his throat and looked uncomfortable for the first time since I’d known him. I racked my brain to see if I’d forgotten to tip him or left anything weird in the lobby that would make him uncomfortable, but there was nothing I could think of.

“You okay?”

“Um, Mr. Decker, I…took a liberty I perhaps shouldn’t have.”

I couldn’t help smiling at his overly formal speech. Those damned crossword puzzles.

“Uh, okay, what’s up?”

“I find myself unsure whether you would want me to tell you or allow this to play out. It’s difficult to know with these sorts of gestures sometimes.”

“Antony. Is there some crazed fan waiting in my apartment to kill me or something? Because I’ll pay you double whatever they did.”

I winked at him, but his eyebrows shot up.

“Wait, there’s not, right?”

“Well, I admit I didn’t consider that perhaps he was a crazed fan.”

“Who?”

Antony straightened his already straight tie.

“Your friend with the guitar.”

I swallowed hard.

“Caleb? Is Caleb here?”

Antony looked pained.

“It’s okay if he is. I know you’ve let him in a hundred times. If you let him in while I wasn’t here, it’s fine.”

A tight nod.

“Okay, cool, thanks. I’ll just…” I pointed up. “Thanks, Antony.”

As I rode the elevator I felt my heart fluttering. I’d tried to call Caleb all week, but he hadn’t answered. I knew he just needed his space sometimes when he was upset. He liked to figure things out for himself. That, at least, was what I’d been telling myself ever since I’d given myself a talking-to in The Cloisters. That he was just doing what he did—panicking, and then we would talk. It was all I had been holding onto.

But now, I had to face the fact that something was about to change. I had the wild thought that the reason Antony was so anxious might be that Caleb was here to really end things. And he’d told Antony because…I don’t know why. My mind was constructing more and more elaborate ways that Caleb might be about to smash my heart to smithereens, and as I put the key in the lock, my hand shook as badly as it had the first time I brought Caleb here, the night we met.

I took a deep breath and pushed the door open.

There, in the middle of the marble floor, stood a piano.

I dropped my bag and walked over to it, running a finger along the glossy edge. It looked worn, and well played—probably from the 1960s—and resting on the music stand was a note in Caleb’s blocky handwriting.

I know you’ll continue to make amazing music. Maybe this will help. For what it’s worth, I can’t wait to hear every song. If you’ll let me. I’m sorry I got scared—it’s been happening a lot in the last year or so. But I think it’s good because being scared means I know I’ve got something to lose. I hope I haven’t lost you, Theo. I’m in the guest room if you want to talk, but if you don’t, just go into your room and shut the door, and I’ll leave. I love you.

I practically ran to the guest room. The door was open, and Caleb was pacing, chewing on his thumbnail.

When I opened my mouth, nothing came out, so I just held up the note, vaguely aware that the relief that had swept through me was actually making me light-headed. Caleb closed the distance between us in three steps, pulling me against his chest and hugging me tight. The note crumpled between us.

“I love you,” he breathed into my hair. “I love you, Theo, and I’m so fucking sorry I didn’t tell you before.”

I tried to answer but his arms were too tight around me, so I just tucked my head into his shoulder and held on. Finally, Caleb’s hold eased a little and we sat down on the edge of the bed.

“ ’M so sorry,” he kept muttering.

“I love you,” I whispered, and kissed him.

The heat between us flared in seconds, and we ripped at each other’s clothes, dropping tatters of apologies and declarations of love like kisses on each other’s skin.

Then Caleb was inside me, just spit and want between us, and I grabbed at him, desperate to feel every inch. His deep, powerful strokes lit a fire in my belly and I just held on, hands on his ass, as we threw ourselves against each other. It was fast and dirty and bruising and exactly what I needed.

Caleb railed me, panting out words of love, and I kissed him as I bit bruises on his shoulders, and when I came, my orgasm burned through me like wildfire, exploding between us as I screamed into Caleb’s neck. I dropped my head to the bed when blackness edged my vision, and closed my eyes. Caleb thrust hard, and froze, moaning his pleasure against my skin. He gathered me up and thrust again and again until he was just a shivering mess above me, then collapsed on me.

We woke hours later, sore and stuck together, and after a much-needed shower, I pulled Caleb into the kitchen, even though it was the middle of the night. I was so hungry I was light-headed, and scoured the kitchen looking for something edible. Unsurprisingly, since I hadn’t gone to the store or ordered groceries, there wasn’t much. I found some crackers, a jar of peanut butter and one of jam, called it PB&J sandwiches, and promised myself I’d get some food tomorrow.

I brought the food to the table and tried to make little sandwiches, but the crackers kept breaking. Finally, Caleb grabbed a plate, took the knife away from me, and plopped a mound of peanut butter and a mound of jelly on the plate, and told me to dip.

“So…you really did it,” he said. And I braced for a moment, but his voice was low, impressed. “I, um, I’m proud of you. I was an ass about it before. I panicked. I guess that won’t shock you by now. But I didn’t mean what I said, about you regretting it. Of course you should do the thing that makes you happy, and fuck the rest.”

I slid my hand into his and squeezed. He snagged a cracker and scooped up some peanut butter.

After I’d left Caleb’s house the day I got back from tour, I’d driven around for hours before coming back into the city, so tired it was a miracle I didn’t crash the car. I was furious, and hurt, and so confused. And I cursed Caleb over and over for taking what should’ve been one of the best moments of my life and turning it inside out.

A few days later, though, when the hurt and anger had dimmed a little, the thought that settled in was What about the band? I had realized what was right for me, but it had taken it sinking in for me to realize that I wouldn’t just be leaving for me, I’d be leaving them in the lurch. Without their singer and songwriter. Could a band even come back from that?

They could, and I could even list a handful that had, off the top of my head. But the sense that I owed Ven, Coco, and Ethan a debt had always been strong. Could I really do this to them? Could I really take away the thing I knew they’d always wanted more than anything?

So I’d chewed on that for a few more days, bobbing between guilt and desperation. Because the alternative to leaving was, of course, staying. And the real question was, could I do that to myself? Could I live like this for the foreseeable future? Or would I break in a year, or two, or five, and drag them all down with me anyway? At least if I left of my own volition, they were still a unit. They could replace me.

The final analysis showed carnage either way. But if I left, I was hurting them, and if I stayed, I was hurting myself. And I’d just spent too damn long trying to please other people at the expense of what I wanted. I could see it now. I could see it and it didn’t lead anywhere good.

So I’d done it. For the first time since I dropped out of college, I’d done something that I needed and that I knew was going to let people down.

“When you left, I was so scared,” I said. “That I wouldn’t see you again, that I’d fucked everything up. But I knew it was the right thing. Coco and them…uh, they did not take it well.”

That was an understatement. I’d never forget the awful things Ven said. That I was a diva; that I was just doing this for attention and in a few months I’d come crawling back when I realized that my life was nothing without the band; that my songs weren’t even that good. I knew he was angry, disappointed, upset, and he probably didn’t mean half of them, but they still cut.

Coco wasn’t mean, but she was shocked and disappointed. She couldn’t understand how I’d choose to take a step backward when we’d gotten so far. Couldn’t understand how I would make this decision so quickly. I tried to explain that, for me, the feeling wasn’t sudden, but hearing that I’d been, as she put it, “miserable this whole time,” upset her.

Ethan was quiet and thoughtful, as he always was. But I could tell he was hurt. I think, after we’d started talking more, he’d thought I would’ve told him about it first. And maybe I should have. But I knew that if I didn’t walk in there with my speech prepared and my mind made up, it would’ve been a bloodbath. And I just wanted it to be over.

“It’s done, anyway,” I said. We ate in silence for a while. “Are you…any less scared now?”

Caleb raked his hands through his hair.

“I’m…getting there. I made a huge cake. Enormous. It’s at my house.”

“Okay?” I said slowly. I wanted to tease him about how he was crap at baking, citing the blueberry muffins he’d tried to make for breakfast one Saturday that had been better suited for shot put than for consumption, but he had a faraway expression that said he was trying to get at something.

“Um. Matt sent Rhys over with a bunch of snack food. Candy, cake mix, et cetera. And said that when you’re trying to avoid one thing you need to distract yourself with another.” His eyes slid to mine, and he cleared his throat. “It was…hard after we fought. You know? My fault, I know,” he said quickly, “but really hard.”

I nodded and squeezed his arm. It made my heart gallop to think of Caleb, alone at the farmhouse, craving an escape, struggling against it. It scared me to think how close he might have been. And it scared me to think I’d had any part in it.

“Anyway, after a couple of days, I made this damn cake. Two different boxes of cake mix, two tubs of frosting. Fucker’s huge. And kinda disgusting. Too sweet. You’d probably love it.”

I smiled, because I probably would.

“Point is, I was rampaging around the house like a damned wild dog, wringing my hands because I was such a shit to you, and I was terrified that if you didn’t have your career and you just had me, that it would be…not enough, you know? Then what would happen if I fucked up again?”

His voice was strained and I wanted to pull him to me, but I could tell he needed to get this out.

“What if I start using again and I ruin everything between us, and you don’t trust me anymore, don’t—” he shook his head violently. “Can’t love me anymore, and we’re just fucked.” Caleb choked on the word, and I pushed out of my chair and threw my legs over his thighs, pulling him to me. He steadied me at the hips, and held on. After a minute, his breathing evened.

“Then”—he cleared his throat as his voice broke—“then I walked into the kitchen and I made a stupid cake. I think Matty’s idea was that if I couldn’t have heroin I could at least have candy.” He smiled faintly. “But I didn’t need to eat cake, I just needed to make something. To distract myself. And as I was making it, I was thinking, ‘This cake is kind of gross, but when Theo gets home he’ll want some.’ And I imagined you eating a piece and then another the next day, but then the cake was too big, so you put it in the fridge. But then there’s no room for the real food, so you put it in the freezer, and you eat bites off it, you know? When you want something sweet. And I—”

His hands were around my waist but his eyes were wild, elsewhere.

“I’m not making any sense,” he said, shaking his head. “I…I imagined a future for us, in that ridiculous cake, Theo. A future where, I dunno, there was day after day of us doing shit and…groceries and cake and…fuckin’ music, and—shit! I don’t know, man. For the first time in a long time, when I pictured the future it wasn’t in anticipation of struggling through every day. I want that so damn bad. Not because I want you to distract me, or–or–or keep me clean. Because I want to trust myself to make a life. And I want to make it with you. If you…if you still want that?”

Caleb’s eyes finally met mine, and they were fathomless, like he was looking into himself and me at the same time. Seeing the past he feared and the future he finally dared to hope for.

I brushed his hair back and cupped his cheek, kissed him so slowly I could feel the press of his lips and the moment they received mine.

“I want it,” I murmured. “I want everything with you.”

Caleb let out a desperate broken sound, and kissed me again.

“I’m trying,” he said. “I’m really, really trying, I promise.”

“Maybe…maybe if you can’t quite trust yourself yet, you can trust me. Trust that I believe in you, and I love you, and—shit that sounds so cheesy, I just…I…I want you. I want you and everything that means.”

Caleb nodded, a tear tracking down his cheek, and when his mouth met mine, he kissed salt to my lips.

“You wanna know what I realized when I was coming home tonight?”

Caleb nodded again, eyes glued to mine.

“I realized that I can do whatever I want. Without Riven, I have nothing that I have to do. No obligations, no expectations. And it was the strangest feeling, because I…I’ve never had that before. I’ve never really done whatever I want, you know? When I was younger, I did what my parents wanted. I went to college because it was expected of me, and even though I left, I had all this stuff I had to do. When I hooked up with Coco and Ven and Ethan, all I wanted was a chance to do music, but almost right away it was all about what we had to do to get an audience, what we had to do to cut an album, then to get more listeners, then to book bigger gigs, and so on and so on.”

As I said it I remembered the first moment I realized that inertia had swept me someplace I wasn’t sure I wanted to be. It was the moment when we were recording our first album, and I’d sung the lyrics I’d just written for a song, and Ven said, “Wait, do we want to use ‘he’? Do we want everyone to know you’re gay?” He hadn’t meant it maliciously, and I knew he didn’t care about my sexuality at all. And Ethan and Coco both spoke up before I had to, saying that, yes, we wanted it known from the outset. And we went with it.

But that had been the moment. I’d felt a pang of fear that froze in my chest, realizing that this might already have gone in a direction I wasn’t going to be able to live with. But I’d buried it, appreciated that my friends had my back, and not mentioned it.

I ran a hand through Caleb’s hair, then down his back, enjoying the solid, muscular feel of his body. Then I grinned at him.

“We can do whatever we want,” I said.

Caleb raised an eyebrow. He said, “You know, historically, doing whatever I want hasn’t worked out so great for me.” But he smiled.

“We can do whatever we want,” I said again. “You sure like it when I do what I want, huh?” His eyes flashed and he nodded. “Well, now we can make the music we want, we can tour the way we want, if we want. Or not.”

The giddiness was seeping in, and I felt weightless, fizzy with glee.

“It’s so absurd,” I said. “But, Caleb. I have so much money. Like. So much. And we both already have followings. All I mean is that we can make this go however we want. If you don’t want to tour because it feels too hard, then don’t. Build a recording studio at the farm, and make your records and have concerts at the farm that you live-cast, or something. If you want to play a show and then immediately fly home, you can. If you want to play just at clubs in the city and never release another album, fine!”

I considered that one for a moment.

“Well, yes, fine. But I’d be sad not to have a new Caleb Blake Whitman album, if I’m being honest. But, no, sorry, fine! Do whatever you want.”

Caleb laughed and bumped our foreheads together.

“You’re ridiculous,” he said, “but I get the point: I’ve got a hot sugar daddy to build me a swank recording studio and fly me all over creation.”

I elbowed him.

“Damn right. Hey—how the hell did you get a piano in here?”

I slid off his lap and walked over to it.

“Oh. Huey helped me. I bought it off this guy he knows in Brooklyn. He sells instruments to studios and stuff. I called your building and got Antony’s number, then I told him I wanted to surprise you with it. I figured it could go either way. Maybe he’d say okay, since he knew me, maybe he’d tell me to fuck off. I kind of hoped he’d tell me to fuck off because it seems slightly unsafe….Anyway, he said okay, and then he came on shift two hours early so he could help me. I think it’s because he really likes you.”

“Huh?”

“When I said I wanted to surprise you with the piano, he thought it was great. Told me how he once surprised his wife with tickets to…something, and how happy she was. I didn’t even know he was married.”

“Widowed,” I said.

“Oh. Shit. I told him that I understood if he couldn’t let me up, and I could just wait for you in the lobby or something, but he said I could use the service elevator. When I showed up, though, I had Huey with me, and Antony took one look at him and told me that only I could go up to your apartment.”

Caleb chuckled.

“Poor Huey. People always think he’s such a beast. He wants to meet you, by the way.”

“Oh, great intro. I remember him from the bar the night we met. He does look rather beastly.”

“He’s a teddy bear. Well. No. He’s a dangerous motherfucker if you’re messing with him or anyone he cares about. But with his friends, he’s all in.”

I sat down at the piano bench and ran my fingers over the keys.

“Is it—I don’t know much about pianos. Is it any good?”

I pressed into the keys, the give beneath my fingers so familiar that I closed my eyes in pleasure. I played a few notes, just testing the tuning, and pedals. It would need to be tuned, but it sounded good.

“Yeah. Yeah, it’s great.”

Caleb sat down beside me, muscular thigh pressing against mine.

“Will you play me something?”

I took a deep breath and felt my spine straighten and my shoulders drop. I began to play and the warm sound of the piano echoed through my spacious apartment, filling the stark white walls with sound. I felt like I was blowing up balloons and letting them loose, color and buoyancy replacing minimalism and space.

“Sounds familiar,” Caleb murmured from beside me.

“I played it on the keyboard at your house. When Rhys was over?”

He nodded.

“ ’S beautiful.”

It was a piece I’d always loved. I’d played it at a recital, but somehow even that hadn’t tainted it for me. But now, I knew, I needed something different. I pressed myself closer to Caleb and began to play. I felt the moment when he realized what I was playing because he tensed, then he slid an arm around my waist.

“That’s our song.”

I nodded and kissed him, and he rested his head against my shoulder and pulled me tight against him. It made it harder to play, but I couldn’t have cared less.

After I played through it twice, I switched to something else. Something I’d been hearing in my head for months but had never felt right on the guitar. It was light and dark, major and minor, rock and blues. Caleb and me.

“What’s that?” Caleb murmured into my neck. He ran his lips over my throat and brushed my hair away so he could kiss the skin there.

“I’m writing it for you,” I said. His arms were wrapped around me, his large form taking up nearly the whole piano bench, but still I played. Safe in his embrace, his mouth at my neck, and the promise of tomorrow as complicated and full of hope as a soaring solo, I played. I played for both of us.