Total pages in book: 129
Estimated words: 125117 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 626(@200wpm)___ 500(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 125117 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 626(@200wpm)___ 500(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)
Soft music issued from an open window to the left of the door, and white lights twinkled from inside. Guy had always been so vague about certain aspects of his life, and Truman only hesitated for a moment before he let himself peek inside. You could tell so much about someone by their décor, their taste in art, their holiday decorations. He wanted to see the tree that he hadn’t been invited to help decorate, the ornaments that, Guy had let slip, he’d collected over the years. Truman made a bet with himself that the tree would be as cleanly and modernly arrayed as Guy himself.
The room was gray and white and navy, appointed with club chairs, a mid-century-modern couch, and an enormous Christmas tree. The white fairy lights that adorned it were evenly spaced around its branches; expensive-looking glass ornaments were hung with an engineer’s precision. Truman smiled fondly at the effort that must have gone into the tree and pictured Guy—austere, detail-oriented Guy—listening to Christmas carols by himself while sipping hot cocoa laced with his favorite whiskey and measuring the space between ornaments.
In that moment, Truman forgave Guy for not inviting him to trim the tree. His boyfriend was fastidious and exacting, and he’d wanted to do it precisely as he wished—an ode to the beauty of order rather than a romantic and cozy tradition. It was cute that he had things like this he kept just for himself. Charming.
Smiling, Truman began to turn from the window. He couldn’t wait to kiss the hell out of his endearing weirdo. But movement in the room caught his eye, and he ducked out of sight automatically, mortified at the idea of being caught peeping.
But when he peeked again, he saw the movement was Guy, in all his handsome glory, walking into the room. Truman couldn’t help gazing at him.
As he watched, someone else entered. Truman had been sure that Guy said he was meeting his brother, not having him over…
The man slid an arm around Guy’s waist, and not in a brotherly way.
Truman’s stomach lurched.
The man was blond and brown-eyed. He was talking on the phone, and every few words, he looked up at Guy and rolled his eyes. Guy’s face crinkled into the exact expression of warmth and amusement that Truman had thought belonged to him alone.
For a moment, Truman tried to come up with alternatives to heartbreak: it was Guy’s brother, and they were just very close. It was a friend who had stopped by unexpectedly, just as Truman had, to drop off a gift. It was a coworker who needed Guy’s immediate input on an important business matter. It was…it was…
As he watched, Guy pulled the man closer and kissed the top of his head. When a girl of seven or eight walked into the room and held a jar of peanut butter up to Guy, he opened it for her like it was the most natural thing in the world. Then he tugged her ponytail affectionately.
The girl screwed up her face, but Truman had no trouble recognizing the word she said.
Dad.
Truman threw up in the hyacinths.
***
“You did what?”
Truman banged his forehead on his friend Ramona’s bedroom door.
After leaving Guy’s, desperate for space to think, he’d tried to take refuge in the cemetery, but there had been too many people there, wending their way through the crypts, tipsy from twenty-five-cent martinis at Commander’s Palace. The idea of being seen in general made Truman’s stomach threaten to lurch once more. The idea of being seen by one of Guy’s friends, who all lived in the neighborhood, because of course they did…unbearable.
If he’d gone home, he would have sunk into tears and despair. So he’d headed to Ramona’s place in St. Roch instead.
“Nothing,” he mumbled.
“You did nothing.”
Depends. Does vomiting into someone’s flowers count as something?
“I left. Excuse me for panicking when I realized my boyfriend of almost a year has a secret family.”
Ramona’s eyes got wide, and she shook her head.
“Dog.”
Truman should really be getting home to his own dog—his actual dog. They would take their evening walk, maybe chat with Mr. and Mrs. Dinstein if they were on their porch as they usually were. Then they’d go home and watch YouTube videos or listen to a podcast. Then they’d go to bed. Alone. Like they usually did.
Only now Truman groaned, realizing that the reason he usually went to bed alone was probably not, as he’d been told, because Guy had trouble sleeping in bed with someone.
The other lies revealed themselves in a landslide of horror that threatened to crush Truman.
“God,” he groaned. “I’m such a fucking chump. He’s not going on vacation with his brother for a month, is he?”
Ramona shook her head regretfully.
“How did this happen? How did I do this? How did…I… What…”
He dissolved.
Ramona led him to the couch gently by the arm.